Monthly Archives: September 2013

I’ll Fight A Whedon For You (Ode To Maurissa Tancharoen)

The first time I saw you in pony tails,
that Horrible Doctor’s fan,
I knew by your groove when you sang that tune
that I wanted to be your man.

But then your Commentary
made me Asian Aware-y
and I knew what I’d have to do:

I’ll fight a Whedon for you:
Zak, Jed, or Joss,
Yeah, you know that it’s true.
There’s more a chance
I’ll see DOLLHOUSE renewed
But it’s true:
I’ll fight a Whedon for you.

Echoes remain from that song that you sang
as Kilo the cutest Doll.
I’m too poor for STARZ or for SPARTACUS,
but you know that I’ll give you my all.

No, I’ll never yield; I’ll back AGENTS OF S.H.I.E.L.D.
until Agent Coulson dies (I mean, again, like, for real this time)
You’re Pretty In Pink, I don’t care what they think
Then I saw you with another guy.

Even though you have lupus
I thought we could this
but then werewolves devoured my heart.

But I’ll fight a Whedon for you:
Zak, Jed, or Joss,
Yeah, you know that it’s true.
There’s more a chance
I’ll see DOLLHOUSE renewed
But it’s true:
I’ll fight a Whedon for you.

Did you know that our birthdays
are one day apart (except
plus or minus ten years)?
And sure, Jed is hot —
what’s he got that I’m not?
(I mean, other than a career)

So Mo, won’t you go
with me, baby, you know
we’d be cool (ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh)

But I’ll fight a Whedon for you:
Zak, Jed, or Joss,
Yeah, you know that it’s true.
But I’ll still be here
after S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 2
’cause it’s true:
I’ll fight a Whedon for you.

Sombrero

This poem is going to be a list
of things I think about often and wish
myself and others discussed more freely:
death, God, god, the absence of God, likely
scientific Heaven alternatives,
chaos/randomness, possibilities
involving life being the only real
chaotic factor in the universe,
race, immigration, not giving a fuck
about either, gays, marriage, gay marriage,
being decent to other humans, not
limiting being decent to humans,
socialism, non-capitalism,
sex, comfort, breaking norms, and poetry.

The Origins of Pumpkin Beer

It was nearing sundown on that late autumn evening, and soon the frost would settle in for the long winter months. Mordecai Willington III was tending to the last of his crops, surveying the remaining gourds that littered his field in a tangled mess of pulp and vine, like a spider’s web in orange, brown, and yellow, speckled with flecks of green. It was the end of the harvest season, and though his yield had been high this year, he wasn’t selling as strongly as he had hoped. Soon the gourds would go to waste, buried beneath the snow along the cold Atlantic coast. Without the money he had hoped to make, his family would be forced to ration their goods until the spring.

Mordecai was gathering the final fresh gourds when a blinding white flashed across the field. It was radiant and burned without pain, as if God Himself had come down from above to bless the land. Mordecai was then surprised when a young girl emerged from the glorious haze, wearing boots to the middle of her shins that were covered in the fur of what appeared to be some relative of a sheep. Her long hair seemed an unnatural auburn shade and her clothing was immodest: a form-fitting pair of slacks made of some material he had never seen, and a button-down shirt in tartan tones that clung tightly to her well-supported bosom. She did not appear to be a harlot, though her face was indeed painted, giving her an angelic glow.

“I’m Alyssa,” she said, and when she smiled, her teeth were neither yellow nor jagged, but rather like a child’s in a full grown mouth.

“The Lord knows me as Mordecai Willington III,” he said, and bowed his nod. “Are you a messenger from God? Have you come to tell me how I shall feed my family through this cold, dark winter?”

“I do, but not from God. I come Northeastern University, four-hundred-and-something years in the future. Well, technically I grew up in Jersey but now I’m studying marketing. This is my internship semester.”

Mordecai turned his head and looked curiously at the strange woman. “Your words, they sound like English. I know them, yet I do not understand them. There is something queer about them.”

The girl — Alyssa — rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated. “Ugh, it was one time after volleyball practice. I’m not like a dyke or — you know, forget it, that’s not the point. I’m here to tell you that you need to take those leftover pumpkins, and turn those into beer, so we can get fucked up in the future. Oh, and from now on, you should probably ferment at the start of the harvest, so we can drink them starting in like, August. Got it?”

Mordecai laughed and said, “Others have done the same with their leftover gourds. It tastes retched compared to true ales! But it does indeed get you through the winter. But if we were to use our pumpkin harvest in the summer months, before the crops are ready, it would taste so green, and soiled. And then we would not have the crops to use in the fall!”

“That’s why you just dump a bunch of nutmeg and cinnamon and crap in, and you’ll be fine. And then you just sell that and you’ll make like a million dollars and you won’t even to worry about selling more crops in the future. I’m telling you, I’m marketing major, and I’m doing all kinds of alcohol brand ambassador stuff at  my internship now. I totally know what I’m talking about.”

Mordecai took a step towards her and peered at her with squinted eyes. “Why would I waste such valuable spices? We do make ales from pumpkin at the end of the harvest, but only out of necessity, never for flavor, and certainly not with pride. Why should I listen to you? How do I know that you are not sent here from the Devil?”

“Ugh, why does everyone hate Jersey so much?” the girl replied. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and said, “Just trust me, okay? Think of me as like, the Ghost of Frat Parties Future. Or something. I don’t know. I never read that book, just the SparkNotes.”

#

The next summer, Mordecai took his entire pumpkin harvest and did precisely as he was told. But no one would barter or pay for his beer, and without any other crops to sell, his family went cold and hungry, and over the course of the winter, his entire family succumbed to the elements. But their sacrifice made for some like, totally sweet parties in the first few weeks of the semester.

ПОЧЕМУЧКА

Because I said so is insufficient; I’m not
able to come up with a better answer, one
that will stem the flow of whys and
yield a little quiet, a respite from being
expected to know the answers.

beanie.

i worry for beanie. i really do.

not because beanie isn’t a bad-ass. holy fuck, she sure is. she’s got ink all up and down her arms and her neck and her tits and fuck you, because there are skulls and runes and shit beanie believes in, up to and including the pair of ratty red stockings that symbolize our own beloved history. she’s got death marks. she’s got the weird W/V conglomeration that signifies her car for some reason. and somewhere on her skin you could probably find the names of her three best friends.

but the ink isn’t a safeguard against dicks. in fact, it works against her favor.

Imagebeanie drove up from biloxi 6 weeks ago. “why?” i asked. “because,” she said, and i figured the unspoken next works were “fuck” and “you” and in that order. and i respect that.

but i worry for beanie nonetheless.

oh, beanie can take care of herself. after all, she’s lived in croatia. and hawaii. and, i think, detroit? it was all rather hazy after the Xth jameson rocks. but in any case beanie picked boston. and god knows why and even he doesn’t know why and i begged beanie for an explanation but all she told me was she loves graphic novels.

she loves morrissey.

she owns 15 classic arcade machines and doesn’t yet own skeeball.

she has 3 dogs, one is tallulah, a chihuahua. 

oh, and she owns a human fetus. right, yeah.

but why were they all so mean to beanie? it got so ugly after she left ostensibly for a smoke. and then for good. they talked shit about beanie. “that bitch is psycho,” they said, and all of a sudden i was zapped back to what it’s like and what they’re like and what it’s like.

even the girl who wasn’t born in malden. the one who seemed to have been beanie’s friend, who clinked her glass and said “fuck yeah morrissey!” when beanie was happy to see her — even that girl nodded her head and said “fuck, that bitch has a human fetus at home.” that cut the worst of all.

i worry for beanie, who for some reason, not the least explainable, loved the red sox, though she grew up in mississippi and had the accent to somewhat prove it.

i worry for beanie, who will encounter thick necked men who claim they’re from southie but are really from malden and either way they have small dicks.

i worry for beanie, a girl who won’t shut up about how much she wants to hear morrissey in this bar, right the fuck now. 

i worry for beanie, even the bartender started talking shit after she left. something about late night food and doesn’t she know better and of course she doesn’t you fucking idiot because she just moved here.

i worry for beanie, a girl i do not want to fuck.

i want to hug her and tell her that even the baddest girls with ink and fetuses at home will have it hard here and by the way it is cold and quiet and dark here and beanie is small and warm and twang and smile.

Pedometer

My idea of heaven is a dark,
empty Cineplex where I can watch my
life back with popcorn and some special guests.
The film rolls right before my birth, and with
a remote control I can slow moments,
zoom in or out, discover what all these
background players are about, the whole thing
narrated by my near constant inner
monologue. Some friends and former lovers
will watch beside me for years, judgment-free,
enlightening me as to their own thought
processes and true feelings. And when it’s
over, I will go to the next theatre
and be a special guest for another.

Rachel: Ian’s Return

On Thursday morning around ten-thirty, I hear the lock on the front door undoing. My stomach clenches up from my position at the kitchen table, where I am at my laptop doing some insurance paperwork. I literally close my eyes when Ian walks in the house.

The front door closes. I hear the sound of his suitcase roll across the hardwood in the foyer. Stop. His footsteps over to the kitchen table, over to me, and I feel his kiss on the crown of my head.

“Hi, lovely,” he says.

I hear him track into the bedroom, his bag rolling behind him. Then, the shower in our en suite flips on. I don’t open my eyes the entire time.

Ten minutes later, Ian walks through the French doors of the bedroom in a dress shirt and a tie, and he’s looking down at his cuffs, struggling to button them. His hair is wet.

“I’m going to run to the office. It’s still only four in London,” he says. He bends down to tie a shoe, and then comes over to me. He puts both his hands on my shoulders. “Hey. I love you,” he says. Then he grabs his car key off the hook by the door to the garage, and disappears as fast as he came in.

I blink a few times in succession, not sure if what just happened actually happened. I get up from the table and walk into the bedroom, and sure enough, Ian’s jeans and t-shirt are tossed in a pile on the bed. I sit down on the edge of the bed next to them for a second, then get up, walk over to the bureau, pull out my jewelry box, and slip off my wedding rings.