Questions for the President Prescription For America
Might I suggest or may I suggest
a cigarette, Red Vines or Twizzlers?
Put or pull out method?
Method Man’s method, man?
Why are Polish men? When man lies
R Kelly Fiesta Remix (Dirty Remix)
dirty girl mud run sun mudfish
Fishy va-
lentine’s sayings for him or for her?
May I or can I
holla at ya?
Monday, May 27, 2013
Save Money. Live Better.
Save Money. Live Better.
for Jacob
4 p.m.
I unload
pallets and pallets at work.
Bombing down dusty aisles,
my ten-foot cardboard monsters,
at breakneck speeds of five mph,
scream with rusty wheels. Customers
freeze in terror, never get out of my damn
way. Departments: Chemicals pills
sporting good clothes
food crafts bedding
auto electronic furniture.
7 p.m.
Racks and racks
of hanging apparel
delivered to a lady who
never appreciates a job
well done. Burnt backs
pushing their Sisyphusian carts
with honking car vultures
circling.
Midnight
I get off at one
o’clock on the dot
(no overtime, never over-
time) and time again
recycles, it's already
the next workday.
The sky is black, starless,
except for the humming white
fluorescent moon against
abyss. Literally starless––
a tarmac draping
over the lot, a wall over the mart.
1 a.m.
Every night we’re visited by
a coyote that will eat
out of your hand. My coworkers
named him “Jacob.” His head guides
his slim body toward and away
from me like the tides,
ears never stop pointing.
I don’t give him a name.
I don’t call him anything.
It needs to get away
from the emptiness
of a nighttime parking lot:
I want to lie in the dirt with
the coyote, let his fangs tear
at my jugular first, work
their way to my chest and stomach, turn
me and dirtied blood mud ground into one
pile that will never be discovered. Just me
and the coyote, rotting in a Californian chaparral
under a starry sky.
Sometimes I hear my name
on the radio and turn it off,
wait for a wild call that never comes.
for Jacob
4 p.m.
I unload
pallets and pallets at work.
Bombing down dusty aisles,
my ten-foot cardboard monsters,
at breakneck speeds of five mph,
scream with rusty wheels. Customers
freeze in terror, never get out of my damn
way. Departments: Chemicals pills
sporting good clothes
food crafts bedding
auto electronic furniture.
7 p.m.
Racks and racks
of hanging apparel
delivered to a lady who
never appreciates a job
well done. Burnt backs
pushing their Sisyphusian carts
with honking car vultures
circling.
Midnight
I get off at one
o’clock on the dot
(no overtime, never over-
time) and time again
recycles, it's already
the next workday.
The sky is black, starless,
except for the humming white
fluorescent moon against
abyss. Literally starless––
a tarmac draping
over the lot, a wall over the mart.
1 a.m.
Every night we’re visited by
a coyote that will eat
out of your hand. My coworkers
named him “Jacob.” His head guides
his slim body toward and away
from me like the tides,
ears never stop pointing.
I don’t give him a name.
I don’t call him anything.
It needs to get away
from the emptiness
of a nighttime parking lot:
I want to lie in the dirt with
the coyote, let his fangs tear
at my jugular first, work
their way to my chest and stomach, turn
me and dirtied blood mud ground into one
pile that will never be discovered. Just me
and the coyote, rotting in a Californian chaparral
under a starry sky.
Sometimes I hear my name
on the radio and turn it off,
wait for a wild call that never comes.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Read Aloud/Red Allowed [Experiment]
I took words & phrases out
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
[Eye took word s/and fray says out
of a Tex book, too song s/and won move 'e,'
Rote theh mons craps
of pay purrs, through theh m/in
the air. This izz how thay lan dead]
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
[the ter mismy met ick
Sough-ish shent moe men/ts]
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
[Doo az the ban/d say/s/o
the ban/d says: "Doan/'t
bee uh hor/"n eye ill aye shun
of bee/g innings, eff furry won cry ying
as thacy yore pair uh dice
stow len knot lost. "Thefft,"
so the ban/d says-a sign knee'ng
thefft too maw th's. Doan/'t bee
doan/'t bee a new cle/air...]
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
[I tur n'd Gins burr/g
up psy/ down butt ike 'h'ood'n't
chain'j thuh colur office psy'd-
burr'ns.]
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
[smallis panic boize shou/tat
mike ar,win doe/s
roll'dup frumuh str/eat
corn or in fron tough sum
read play scald Alf e-o's]
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
[Butt a vary clear/y mage
of/fer peep ill hav/ing
shade, the son on there feat
foth ir/muh/ th'r
dot orson, buh ruh thur.]
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
[Eye took word s/and fray says out
of a Tex book, too song s/and won move 'e,'
Rote theh mons craps
of pay purrs, through theh m/in
the air. This izz how thay lan dead]
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
[the ter mismy met ick
Sough-ish shent moe men/ts]
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
[Doo az the ban/d say/s/o
the ban/d says: "Doan/'t
bee uh hor/"n eye ill aye shun
of bee/g innings, eff furry won cry ying
as thacy yore pair uh dice
stow len knot lost. "Thefft,"
so the ban/d says-a sign knee'ng
thefft too maw th's. Doan/'t bee
doan/'t bee a new cle/air...]
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
[I tur n'd Gins burr/g
up psy/ down butt ike 'h'ood'n't
chain'j thuh colur office psy'd-
burr'ns.]
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
[smallis panic boize shou/tat
mike ar,win doe/s
roll'dup frumuh str/eat
corn or in fron tough sum
read play scald Alf e-o's]
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
[Butt a vary clear/y mage
of/fer peep ill hav/ing
shade, the son on there feat
foth ir/muh/ th'r
dot orson, buh ruh thur.]
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
For those interested: An essay I wrote defending feminist readings & criticizing 19th century gender ideologies in Twain's novel and Chopin's short story. From the perspective of Huck and Jim having a debate.
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
A small raft, piloted by a lively young boy in torn denim and the large man standing over him, tumultuously rolls over waves created in a sudden storm. C’mon Jim, says the boy to the man, pointing to a houseboat they see at the side of the river. They find the houseboat empty and Jim asks the boy where the lady of the house might be.
“Jim, ain’t you read the story wrote about us? And ain’t you paying attention to this ‘Storm’?” says the boy.
Jim responds: “Why no, what of it and what’s this storm got to do with where the women are? Storm like this and they ought to be more home than when the sun’s a-shining.”
“There’s no sense in that, Jim. Listen, Mr. Mark Twain wrote Adventures of Huckleberry Finn mainly about men and boyhood, but he don’t withhold giving attention to the absurdity of ‘female roles.’ And I wasn’t talking about this storm, but “The Storm,” a short story by Kate Chopin. Even in the male-driven novel by Twain, female agency shows through Judith Loftus and Miss Watson and, in Chopin’s “The Storm,” an arguably more feminist story, 19th century ideologies rear their heads even though Calixta shows more female agency outright. It’s like floating down a wide river so as no one can see you in the dark versus trying to be hidden in a narrow channel with other boaters.”
“Well, shucks, Huck, you’re sure sounding ‘sivilized.’ That’s mighty difficult things you’re saying.”
“You bet they are,” grins Huck, beginning rapidly until Jim tells him to, “explain ‘em slow-like.”
“In Huck Finn, Judith Loftus, a female playing a male game, uses her logic, meta-awareness and self-determination to elevate herself above gender ideologies. I thought I had her right fooled in my girl get-up, but Mrs. Loftus set up her own tricks and called me out saying, “Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain” (168). Unlike Tom’s Aunt Sally, who is wholly fooled by similar deceptions, Loftus uses reason, a characteristic associated with men, to see through my girlish clothes. She is, in fact, the only female character to take part in some form of fraud, and without repercussions. The Grangersons and Sheperdsons both had corpses at the end of their lies and the Duke and the King were tar’d and feather’d! Even I got stricken with guilt after my ploys with you, Jim. But Mrs. Loftus got away with it, showing her subversion of the binary that males are, by nature, logical and women emotional.
“Why, Judith Loftus even acknowledges gender dichotomies when she tells me the ‘proper’ way to act as a lady. After being caught, she teaches me to not, “hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it…And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff…like a girl…” (168). Her meta-understanding (‘How do you meet an understanding?’ Jim inquired.) of the absurdities of gender roles, seen in how she addressed the various ‘correct’ and ‘lady-like’ ways of performing tasks, shows her complexity amongst other flat characters in the novel. Before she outed me as a boy, she threw her own stone at a rat and, “said ‘Ouch!’ it hurt her arm so” (166). Of course, she was only putting on face, an example of Mrs. Loftus’ awareness and long-lasting fraud: acting like a woman should in the presence of men. It occurs to me now that she was also dominate over her husband. She told me, about my secret, that she’ll, “keep it; and what’s more, I’ll help you. So’ll my old man, if you want him to” (167). What an implication! That she or I, at the time dressed as a woman, could make a man do something on our behalf.”
“Huck, I reckon she was the logical female that also figured where we was, on Jackson’s Island (165), but if she was so self-determined and showing ‘female agency,’ how come there’s no fuss at her being forced to pretend and be confined to the house?”
“I was getting there, Jim, hold your horses. The other ladies in the novel juxtaposed with Mrs. Loftus are the complaint. Aunt Sally, when Tom and I got rats in the house and she caught sight of them, “she was standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her” (292-93). Put them rats next to Loftus’ rats and there’s the frustration of an able-bodied woman being helpless. Let me get to Miss Watson to explain. Watson, at the beginning of the novel, is the very embodiment of 19th century gender ideologies. This is reflected in how she tried, and failed, to teach me to be proper and teach me about heaven, “…the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever” (132). Clearly a product of the ideologies embedded in her, her views about religion are the same as hers in position to men. Watson never puts up a fight, and even the judge gives custody of me to my father before her and the widow. But it’s mostly her role as a teacher of ‘civility’ and as a follower that shows her subscription to the engrained beliefs.
“Now, Jim, follow me closely on this: If Miss Watson and the other abundance of female characters are all flat in that novel, with the exception of Judith Loftus, what of Miss Watsons’ final action? When you was about to get shipped off back to slavery, we learned that “Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will” (307). A flat, female character gained depth in that moment, and, more importantly, illustrated her own power to act according to her own will (a clever play on the word “will“). Her final action, associated with Jim being in constraints, like herself, shows a symbolic death of the docility and passivity of the female. Showing her ability to cause a drastic change, be an active role, to the story reconciles the inability of Judith Loftus as a functioning character and the novel’s sense of female agency. Meaning, Miss Watson’s “will” speaks of a freeing of gender constraints on behalf of all the women in the novel because it is done without the overseeing of men.”
“It warms my heart to hear the freeing of chains, Huck. That Mr. Mark Twain should’a spoken more clearly though. He rambles a bit, makes it unnecessarily hidden and confusin’.”
“That’s where Chopin’s “The Storm” comes into play. After the crashes of lightning and the subsequent flashes of passion between Alcée and Calixta, Calixta looks up at the soon-to-be lover and “the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire” (559). If “female agency” is the power of self-determined action, than desire is a clear signifier of that agency because desire exists solely within oneself, within Calixta. And, more importantly, it is her physical manifestation of this desire in having sex with Alcée that shows action over thoughts. What’s more, when her husband and son return after the storm passes, after the affair ends, she and her family “relax and enjoy themselves…[and] at the table they laughed much and so loud that one might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s” (561). She laughs to show her family that nothing is wrong. She laughs to show herself that nothing is wrong. She even laughs to show Alcée that their act is not something weighing on her mind. Her laughter is a sign that she feels no remorse, no regret, over such a taboo act. If that ain’t heard loud and clear enough, Jim, I don’t know what else would be.”
“Huck, I recall them stories now, about us and about Calixta. I hope you don’t mind me killing two crippled birds with one gender ideological stone. And apologies for being so adult-like with it, but there ain’t no two ways about saying it. Mark Twain and Kate Chopin couldn’t never escape the ideologies of women as sexual objects and as sexually submissive. The advice Judith Loftus told you when want to act like a girl shows this: “…don’t hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it” (167). The needle, with an oval opening, is a yonic symbol and the thread is obviously a phallic one. She advised that the proper way for a woman to “thread a needle,” or have sex, is to not use the needle as the object (and I do emphasize on the word ‘object’) of action, but the thread that pokes at the stationary needle. It is not the needle’s position to be dominant over the thread, the female over the male.
“And that poor Calixta. Why, her having sex with Alcée might have shown her female agency, but it’s how she did it that contradicts itself. Kate Chopin, in the text, only describes the physical attributes of Calixta as M’sieur Alcée sees them: her “blue eyes still retained their melting quality,” her “warm and steaming” face, her “lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed,” her “full, firm bosom,” her “creamy lily” skin and her breasts that “gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips” (559-60). Calixta is portrayed as the object of the male gaze and, even partaking in the sexual act, does not get out from or subvert that gaze. Like her breasts “giving up,” she also falls back into Alcée’s arms and, at the peak of their sexual encounter, “he possessed her” (560). Like Loftus showed with her symbols, Calixta isn’t permitted to be dominant over the male. It’s her ‘place’ to be taken, to surrender, to be possessed by Alcée. And the quiet rebellion of both these ladies against traditional gender ideologies does occur within the confines of their domesticity, just as the authors where in the confines of their own era.”
“ ‘But hang it Jim, you’ve clean missed the point––you don’t get the point.’
“ ‘Blame de pint! I reck’n I knows what I knows’”(178).
The rain stops pattering against their found shelter and the two return to the raft and the calm river. Still, neither of them saw, or see, a sign of a woman at that house.
Chapter XLIV: Huck and Jim Move on, Women in Tow
A small raft, piloted by a lively young boy in torn denim and the large man standing over him, tumultuously rolls over waves created in a sudden storm. C’mon Jim, says the boy to the man, pointing to a houseboat they see at the side of the river. They find the houseboat empty and Jim asks the boy where the lady of the house might be.
“Jim, ain’t you read the story wrote about us? And ain’t you paying attention to this ‘Storm’?” says the boy.
Jim responds: “Why no, what of it and what’s this storm got to do with where the women are? Storm like this and they ought to be more home than when the sun’s a-shining.”
“There’s no sense in that, Jim. Listen, Mr. Mark Twain wrote Adventures of Huckleberry Finn mainly about men and boyhood, but he don’t withhold giving attention to the absurdity of ‘female roles.’ And I wasn’t talking about this storm, but “The Storm,” a short story by Kate Chopin. Even in the male-driven novel by Twain, female agency shows through Judith Loftus and Miss Watson and, in Chopin’s “The Storm,” an arguably more feminist story, 19th century ideologies rear their heads even though Calixta shows more female agency outright. It’s like floating down a wide river so as no one can see you in the dark versus trying to be hidden in a narrow channel with other boaters.”
“Well, shucks, Huck, you’re sure sounding ‘sivilized.’ That’s mighty difficult things you’re saying.”
“You bet they are,” grins Huck, beginning rapidly until Jim tells him to, “explain ‘em slow-like.”
“In Huck Finn, Judith Loftus, a female playing a male game, uses her logic, meta-awareness and self-determination to elevate herself above gender ideologies. I thought I had her right fooled in my girl get-up, but Mrs. Loftus set up her own tricks and called me out saying, “Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain” (168). Unlike Tom’s Aunt Sally, who is wholly fooled by similar deceptions, Loftus uses reason, a characteristic associated with men, to see through my girlish clothes. She is, in fact, the only female character to take part in some form of fraud, and without repercussions. The Grangersons and Sheperdsons both had corpses at the end of their lies and the Duke and the King were tar’d and feather’d! Even I got stricken with guilt after my ploys with you, Jim. But Mrs. Loftus got away with it, showing her subversion of the binary that males are, by nature, logical and women emotional.
“Why, Judith Loftus even acknowledges gender dichotomies when she tells me the ‘proper’ way to act as a lady. After being caught, she teaches me to not, “hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it…And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tip-toe, and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff…like a girl…” (168). Her meta-understanding (‘How do you meet an understanding?’ Jim inquired.) of the absurdities of gender roles, seen in how she addressed the various ‘correct’ and ‘lady-like’ ways of performing tasks, shows her complexity amongst other flat characters in the novel. Before she outed me as a boy, she threw her own stone at a rat and, “said ‘Ouch!’ it hurt her arm so” (166). Of course, she was only putting on face, an example of Mrs. Loftus’ awareness and long-lasting fraud: acting like a woman should in the presence of men. It occurs to me now that she was also dominate over her husband. She told me, about my secret, that she’ll, “keep it; and what’s more, I’ll help you. So’ll my old man, if you want him to” (167). What an implication! That she or I, at the time dressed as a woman, could make a man do something on our behalf.”
“Huck, I reckon she was the logical female that also figured where we was, on Jackson’s Island (165), but if she was so self-determined and showing ‘female agency,’ how come there’s no fuss at her being forced to pretend and be confined to the house?”
“I was getting there, Jim, hold your horses. The other ladies in the novel juxtaposed with Mrs. Loftus are the complaint. Aunt Sally, when Tom and I got rats in the house and she caught sight of them, “she was standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her” (292-93). Put them rats next to Loftus’ rats and there’s the frustration of an able-bodied woman being helpless. Let me get to Miss Watson to explain. Watson, at the beginning of the novel, is the very embodiment of 19th century gender ideologies. This is reflected in how she tried, and failed, to teach me to be proper and teach me about heaven, “…the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever” (132). Clearly a product of the ideologies embedded in her, her views about religion are the same as hers in position to men. Watson never puts up a fight, and even the judge gives custody of me to my father before her and the widow. But it’s mostly her role as a teacher of ‘civility’ and as a follower that shows her subscription to the engrained beliefs.
“Now, Jim, follow me closely on this: If Miss Watson and the other abundance of female characters are all flat in that novel, with the exception of Judith Loftus, what of Miss Watsons’ final action? When you was about to get shipped off back to slavery, we learned that “Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will” (307). A flat, female character gained depth in that moment, and, more importantly, illustrated her own power to act according to her own will (a clever play on the word “will“). Her final action, associated with Jim being in constraints, like herself, shows a symbolic death of the docility and passivity of the female. Showing her ability to cause a drastic change, be an active role, to the story reconciles the inability of Judith Loftus as a functioning character and the novel’s sense of female agency. Meaning, Miss Watson’s “will” speaks of a freeing of gender constraints on behalf of all the women in the novel because it is done without the overseeing of men.”
“It warms my heart to hear the freeing of chains, Huck. That Mr. Mark Twain should’a spoken more clearly though. He rambles a bit, makes it unnecessarily hidden and confusin’.”
“That’s where Chopin’s “The Storm” comes into play. After the crashes of lightning and the subsequent flashes of passion between Alcée and Calixta, Calixta looks up at the soon-to-be lover and “the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire” (559). If “female agency” is the power of self-determined action, than desire is a clear signifier of that agency because desire exists solely within oneself, within Calixta. And, more importantly, it is her physical manifestation of this desire in having sex with Alcée that shows action over thoughts. What’s more, when her husband and son return after the storm passes, after the affair ends, she and her family “relax and enjoy themselves…[and] at the table they laughed much and so loud that one might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s” (561). She laughs to show her family that nothing is wrong. She laughs to show herself that nothing is wrong. She even laughs to show Alcée that their act is not something weighing on her mind. Her laughter is a sign that she feels no remorse, no regret, over such a taboo act. If that ain’t heard loud and clear enough, Jim, I don’t know what else would be.”
“Huck, I recall them stories now, about us and about Calixta. I hope you don’t mind me killing two crippled birds with one gender ideological stone. And apologies for being so adult-like with it, but there ain’t no two ways about saying it. Mark Twain and Kate Chopin couldn’t never escape the ideologies of women as sexual objects and as sexually submissive. The advice Judith Loftus told you when want to act like a girl shows this: “…don’t hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it” (167). The needle, with an oval opening, is a yonic symbol and the thread is obviously a phallic one. She advised that the proper way for a woman to “thread a needle,” or have sex, is to not use the needle as the object (and I do emphasize on the word ‘object’) of action, but the thread that pokes at the stationary needle. It is not the needle’s position to be dominant over the thread, the female over the male.
“And that poor Calixta. Why, her having sex with Alcée might have shown her female agency, but it’s how she did it that contradicts itself. Kate Chopin, in the text, only describes the physical attributes of Calixta as M’sieur Alcée sees them: her “blue eyes still retained their melting quality,” her “warm and steaming” face, her “lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed,” her “full, firm bosom,” her “creamy lily” skin and her breasts that “gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips” (559-60). Calixta is portrayed as the object of the male gaze and, even partaking in the sexual act, does not get out from or subvert that gaze. Like her breasts “giving up,” she also falls back into Alcée’s arms and, at the peak of their sexual encounter, “he possessed her” (560). Like Loftus showed with her symbols, Calixta isn’t permitted to be dominant over the male. It’s her ‘place’ to be taken, to surrender, to be possessed by Alcée. And the quiet rebellion of both these ladies against traditional gender ideologies does occur within the confines of their domesticity, just as the authors where in the confines of their own era.”
“ ‘But hang it Jim, you’ve clean missed the point––you don’t get the point.’
“ ‘Blame de pint! I reck’n I knows what I knows’”(178).
The rain stops pattering against their found shelter and the two return to the raft and the calm river. Still, neither of them saw, or see, a sign of a woman at that house.
Fishing Bait
Fishing Bait
I was playing in the sandbox when the shovels came./ They wouldn’t stop digging, so I
went to the river/ with Dad. I was in charge of the tackle box. I got bored
after five minutes, started to play/ with the worms. I wondered / what part my dad
skewered: the brain or the butt.
I got bored after five minutes and started to play with the fish/ Dad had caught. Its gills
opened like blinds/ and its eyes/ visibly/ dried./ I put worms in the fish mouth, the
closest I’d get to burying it. When my dad wasn’t/ looking, I wriggled a worm into my
own/ mouth. I didn’t like feeling dead, like a fish. Bored
after five minutes, I became the worm./ I didn’t know brain from butt, this time I didn’t
care./ Dirty and skewered and drowning. But the water was cooler/ than the summer
dirt and at least
I knew that the hook burrowing/ through me belonged to someone/ strong. Dad, with one
last tug/ on the fishing/ pole,/ said we were leaving for the day. I told him I was bored
after five minutes.
Back home in the sandbox, the shovels came again and they wouldn’t stop digging up
worms.
I was playing in the sandbox when the shovels came./ They wouldn’t stop digging, so I
went to the river/ with Dad. I was in charge of the tackle box. I got bored
after five minutes, started to play/ with the worms. I wondered / what part my dad
skewered: the brain or the butt.
I got bored after five minutes and started to play with the fish/ Dad had caught. Its gills
opened like blinds/ and its eyes/ visibly/ dried./ I put worms in the fish mouth, the
closest I’d get to burying it. When my dad wasn’t/ looking, I wriggled a worm into my
own/ mouth. I didn’t like feeling dead, like a fish. Bored
after five minutes, I became the worm./ I didn’t know brain from butt, this time I didn’t
care./ Dirty and skewered and drowning. But the water was cooler/ than the summer
dirt and at least
I knew that the hook burrowing/ through me belonged to someone/ strong. Dad, with one
last tug/ on the fishing/ pole,/ said we were leaving for the day. I told him I was bored
after five minutes.
Back home in the sandbox, the shovels came again and they wouldn’t stop digging up
worms.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Traffic Revelations [Rough Draft]
Traffic Revelations
“And when you see the face of God you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Godly man and Godly woman. And prayers will be eternally upon your lips and there will be nothing more to look for except God. And this is all a dream with an end that––”
Alright, who’s the idiot that was fudging with my radio presets? It was all very precise to how I wanted it. One was my go to for classic alternative rock, always the safest bet. Two was my alternative alternative rock station in case I didn’t like the song on One. Three and Four were pop music stations that I only listened to for the sake of others. Wait, those are my FM stations, this must be AM. I don’t think I’ve ever set any AM stations. The car salesman, or at least the guy I bought the car from, told me that dealerships preset FM country stations and AM Christian stations because of various polls and studies. I wasn’t really listening because I didn’t care, I was more worried about the car.
I told him the seat looked too close to the wheel.
He said that the adjustment lever was broken.
I showed him that I couldn’t fit past the wheel.
He told me that it wasn’t his problem I was too fat.
I told him to fuck off.
He shoved the chair back with force.
It’s still broken and a metal rod is sticking out through the side of the seat, but at least I fit.
When we had made the deal official, he shook my hand just long enough to make me worry if I had grabbed wet naps on the way out that day. He might have been right about the car being a classic beauty despite it’s current appearance in his posting of it in the paper, but my knowledge and appreciation of cars is about as full as my pockets were when I bought it.
Sitting in the traffic of the parking structure, I look around and make a list of the things I know about my car. It’s a faded red. The seats are uncomfortable leather. It smells. There’s a layer of dust that’s so engrained in the clear plastic that I can’t read the digital display underneath that shows the time and station number. When I opened the glove compartment for the first time it smelled like the retirement home room that my mother died in. Radio reception would probably be stronger if the antenna didn’t look like a coat hanger does after being used to jimmy a car lock.
“…through this great sea of blackness that I’ve penetrated and I went through this last segment with the dark serpentines and I penetrated to the most high God and you will believe you’re mad, that you’ve gone insane. There are many wonders sitting there today thinking they’re insane, that they saw something that’s unreal. But they see it through the light of God, the way I saw it through the light of God. And when you see the face of God you die.”
Ambient noise is playing underneath his ramblings to make it more…More what? Poignant? Moving? This guy could describe my car with the same emotion and same music and it would probably sound like something important. But this car would still be the same piece of shit. And when you see the granola bar wrappers on the dirty mats you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Driver man and Driver woman who don’t care about the trash in your car. And the car wash is too expensive to clean the mud off the tires, the tires of your life. And I’m penetrating through the darkness of this parking structure with the black, serpentine SUV in front of me. And when you see the bends of your antenna, you die.
I actually should give this preacher credit because he’s had me listening for this long at least. I hit the AM/FM button to switch over to my One preset.
“…and when you see the face of God you die!” Damn it to Hell, I haven’t moved an inch in this damn traffic and now my radio won’t switch over. Do I deal with silence or more of this lunatic? I push in the volume button in to stop the nonsense ravings.
“…the face of the Godhead three. A face of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and when you see this face you die.” Oh, come on, I’m sick of this damn, brainless goof! I try pushing in the power button, the AM/FM button, the One button and the Two button, but still get nothing. That is to say, I get the “face of God” thrown back at me again and again.
Look, preacher, you’re performance is getting goddamn stale. At least real actors do multiple takes with various techniques. Like, right now, to show my frustration, I’ll honk the horn and shift violently in my seat, but I won’t keep doing the same thing repetitiously. I swear, you’re like itching a bug bite, the more I try to get rid of you the more annoying you becoming. No wonder I don’t listen to the goddamned AM stations. Plus, you have it backwards. I won’t see the face of God and then die. I’ll be dead already when I see the face of God.
“…you will not be dead before you see the face of God.” The radio goes silent. I redistribute my weight towards my legs with an amused smirk, the coincidence of words shaking off the veil that was draped across my mind. Did my radio die completely or was the broadcast over? If the broadcast was over, there wouldn’t be silence. Damn it to hell, I guess my radio is really broken. Piece of shit car. I push my foot harder on the break to tense up all the muscles in my leg. And my radio is a piece of shit and my car is a piece of shit and this black SUV in front of me that hasn’t budged in ten minutes is a piece of shit and this Goddamn preacher is a piece of––
“BUT BECAUSE OF YOUR HARD AND IMPENITENT HEART YOU ARE STORING UP WRATH FOR YOURSELF ON THE DAY WHEN GOD’S RIGHTEOUS JUGDMENT WILL BE REVEALED.” I jump in my seat and cover my ears at the intense volume of the radio and turn the volume knob in every direction to try and stop it. My eyes are closed at the shock and noise when I push every button my fingers land on, all of them at the same time.
“WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE.” What the hell? I know people are staring at me. Shit. I put the car in park and turn off the car, my foot still on the brake.
“…YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU…” My hands grow hot around ears and it feels like I have a bloody nose, but everything’s dry. The car speakers are making that static fart noise when they’re about to be blown out and the bass of the voice and the volume are working together to shake the car and pound at my rib cage. When I tear my eyes open, I see the SUV in front of me is white instead of black and pulsing red and blue lights are assaulting my eyes.
“AND HE WILL SAY TO THOSE ON THE LEFT “DEPART FROM ME YOU CURSED INTO THE ETERNAL FIRE PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS…” There’s a wetness against my mouth and the pounding on my lungs feels rhythmic. Something tingles at my feet, like the pins and needle feeling when blood stops circulating. The pins work their way up my legs but the ones at my feet start to push harder and harder, as if they are pushing all the way through my foot. The penetrations work their way up my legs and hips, shoving into my spinal cord and cascading over the back of my head and down towards my face. When the needles bury into my eyes, I see the Godly woman in all white with a set of wings atop two snakes around a staff pinned on her chest. She bends down and touches her lips against my dry ones, her blonde hair brushing against my unmoving cheeks and neck. The kiss is a familiar one of “goodbye.”
A darkness slides into vision from my peripherals like a serpent. A pain erupts at my heart as if the sting of every stubbed toe, every paper cut, every headache, every violent shout, every punch, every divorce, every night spent alone is pushed into one syringe that’s plunged into the last piece of flesh operating in my body. And the last thing I see is the digital clock on my dash, but there’s no time displayed. And I wonder how long I’ve been in this car, how long this agony has lasted. And it feels like an eternity. And the lips are gone. And I’m sorr––
“And when you see the face of God you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Godly man and Godly woman. And prayers will be eternally upon your lips and there will be nothing more to look for except God. And this is all a dream with an end that––”
Alright, who’s the idiot that was fudging with my radio presets? It was all very precise to how I wanted it. One was my go to for classic alternative rock, always the safest bet. Two was my alternative alternative rock station in case I didn’t like the song on One. Three and Four were pop music stations that I only listened to for the sake of others. Wait, those are my FM stations, this must be AM. I don’t think I’ve ever set any AM stations. The car salesman, or at least the guy I bought the car from, told me that dealerships preset FM country stations and AM Christian stations because of various polls and studies. I wasn’t really listening because I didn’t care, I was more worried about the car.
I told him the seat looked too close to the wheel.
He said that the adjustment lever was broken.
I showed him that I couldn’t fit past the wheel.
He told me that it wasn’t his problem I was too fat.
I told him to fuck off.
He shoved the chair back with force.
It’s still broken and a metal rod is sticking out through the side of the seat, but at least I fit.
When we had made the deal official, he shook my hand just long enough to make me worry if I had grabbed wet naps on the way out that day. He might have been right about the car being a classic beauty despite it’s current appearance in his posting of it in the paper, but my knowledge and appreciation of cars is about as full as my pockets were when I bought it.
Sitting in the traffic of the parking structure, I look around and make a list of the things I know about my car. It’s a faded red. The seats are uncomfortable leather. It smells. There’s a layer of dust that’s so engrained in the clear plastic that I can’t read the digital display underneath that shows the time and station number. When I opened the glove compartment for the first time it smelled like the retirement home room that my mother died in. Radio reception would probably be stronger if the antenna didn’t look like a coat hanger does after being used to jimmy a car lock.
“…through this great sea of blackness that I’ve penetrated and I went through this last segment with the dark serpentines and I penetrated to the most high God and you will believe you’re mad, that you’ve gone insane. There are many wonders sitting there today thinking they’re insane, that they saw something that’s unreal. But they see it through the light of God, the way I saw it through the light of God. And when you see the face of God you die.”
Ambient noise is playing underneath his ramblings to make it more…More what? Poignant? Moving? This guy could describe my car with the same emotion and same music and it would probably sound like something important. But this car would still be the same piece of shit. And when you see the granola bar wrappers on the dirty mats you will die and there will be nothing left of you except the Driver man and Driver woman who don’t care about the trash in your car. And the car wash is too expensive to clean the mud off the tires, the tires of your life. And I’m penetrating through the darkness of this parking structure with the black, serpentine SUV in front of me. And when you see the bends of your antenna, you die.
I actually should give this preacher credit because he’s had me listening for this long at least. I hit the AM/FM button to switch over to my One preset.
“…and when you see the face of God you die!” Damn it to Hell, I haven’t moved an inch in this damn traffic and now my radio won’t switch over. Do I deal with silence or more of this lunatic? I push in the volume button in to stop the nonsense ravings.
“…the face of the Godhead three. A face of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost and when you see this face you die.” Oh, come on, I’m sick of this damn, brainless goof! I try pushing in the power button, the AM/FM button, the One button and the Two button, but still get nothing. That is to say, I get the “face of God” thrown back at me again and again.
Look, preacher, you’re performance is getting goddamn stale. At least real actors do multiple takes with various techniques. Like, right now, to show my frustration, I’ll honk the horn and shift violently in my seat, but I won’t keep doing the same thing repetitiously. I swear, you’re like itching a bug bite, the more I try to get rid of you the more annoying you becoming. No wonder I don’t listen to the goddamned AM stations. Plus, you have it backwards. I won’t see the face of God and then die. I’ll be dead already when I see the face of God.
“…you will not be dead before you see the face of God.” The radio goes silent. I redistribute my weight towards my legs with an amused smirk, the coincidence of words shaking off the veil that was draped across my mind. Did my radio die completely or was the broadcast over? If the broadcast was over, there wouldn’t be silence. Damn it to hell, I guess my radio is really broken. Piece of shit car. I push my foot harder on the break to tense up all the muscles in my leg. And my radio is a piece of shit and my car is a piece of shit and this black SUV in front of me that hasn’t budged in ten minutes is a piece of shit and this Goddamn preacher is a piece of––
“BUT BECAUSE OF YOUR HARD AND IMPENITENT HEART YOU ARE STORING UP WRATH FOR YOURSELF ON THE DAY WHEN GOD’S RIGHTEOUS JUGDMENT WILL BE REVEALED.” I jump in my seat and cover my ears at the intense volume of the radio and turn the volume knob in every direction to try and stop it. My eyes are closed at the shock and noise when I push every button my fingers land on, all of them at the same time.
“WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE.” What the hell? I know people are staring at me. Shit. I put the car in park and turn off the car, my foot still on the brake.
“…YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU SEE THE FACE OF GOD YOU DIE WHEN YOU…” My hands grow hot around ears and it feels like I have a bloody nose, but everything’s dry. The car speakers are making that static fart noise when they’re about to be blown out and the bass of the voice and the volume are working together to shake the car and pound at my rib cage. When I tear my eyes open, I see the SUV in front of me is white instead of black and pulsing red and blue lights are assaulting my eyes.
“AND HE WILL SAY TO THOSE ON THE LEFT “DEPART FROM ME YOU CURSED INTO THE ETERNAL FIRE PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS…” There’s a wetness against my mouth and the pounding on my lungs feels rhythmic. Something tingles at my feet, like the pins and needle feeling when blood stops circulating. The pins work their way up my legs but the ones at my feet start to push harder and harder, as if they are pushing all the way through my foot. The penetrations work their way up my legs and hips, shoving into my spinal cord and cascading over the back of my head and down towards my face. When the needles bury into my eyes, I see the Godly woman in all white with a set of wings atop two snakes around a staff pinned on her chest. She bends down and touches her lips against my dry ones, her blonde hair brushing against my unmoving cheeks and neck. The kiss is a familiar one of “goodbye.”
A darkness slides into vision from my peripherals like a serpent. A pain erupts at my heart as if the sting of every stubbed toe, every paper cut, every headache, every violent shout, every punch, every divorce, every night spent alone is pushed into one syringe that’s plunged into the last piece of flesh operating in my body. And the last thing I see is the digital clock on my dash, but there’s no time displayed. And I wonder how long I’ve been in this car, how long this agony has lasted. And it feels like an eternity. And the lips are gone. And I’m sorr––
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
MotherFather
For the sake of them all being in one place: I've compiled a list of all these different ways that I've written to describe parents. Not my parents, mind you, just single sentences that I think would sum up characteristics succinctly.
"My father was a scorpion & my mother was a six pack" - Pete and Pete
My father was a haircut & my mother was the scissors.
My father was a farmer & my mother was the rabbit.
My father was an onion & my mother was crying.
My father was Trouble & my mother was Sorry. I was Scrabble.
My father was a monocle & my mother was 20/20.
My father was a novel & my mother was a magazine.
My father was a magazine & my mother was a novel.
My father was a fishing rod & my mother was a hunting knife.
My father was a shark & my mother was a wave.
My father was a lion & my mother was an umbrella.
My father was a safari & my mother was an oak.
My father was an is & my mother was a was. I, will be.
My father was a cop & my mother was dirty.
My father was a steel girder & my mother was blind.
My father was dead & my mother was dead.
My father was crimson & my mother was black.
My father was a heart attack & my mother was bloody.
My father was a moustache & my mother was sideburns
"My mother is a fish" - As I Lay Dying
My father was perfume & my mother was a thorn
My father was a metaphor & my mother was pissed.
My father was a drunk & my mother was an ashtray
My father was a poet & my mother was words.
"My father was a scorpion & my mother was a six pack" - Pete and Pete
My father was a haircut & my mother was the scissors.
My father was a farmer & my mother was the rabbit.
My father was an onion & my mother was crying.
My father was Trouble & my mother was Sorry. I was Scrabble.
My father was a monocle & my mother was 20/20.
My father was a novel & my mother was a magazine.
My father was a magazine & my mother was a novel.
My father was a fishing rod & my mother was a hunting knife.
My father was a shark & my mother was a wave.
My father was a lion & my mother was an umbrella.
My father was a safari & my mother was an oak.
My father was an is & my mother was a was. I, will be.
My father was a cop & my mother was dirty.
My father was a steel girder & my mother was blind.
My father was dead & my mother was dead.
My father was crimson & my mother was black.
My father was a heart attack & my mother was bloody.
My father was a moustache & my mother was sideburns
"My mother is a fish" - As I Lay Dying
My father was perfume & my mother was a thorn
My father was a metaphor & my mother was pissed.
My father was a drunk & my mother was an ashtray
My father was a poet & my mother was words.
Hello
These is an idea I had the other day and I liked the image. I don't plan on writing this into anything or expanding on it, but I wanted to write down these scattered ideas. It's not in any way fleshed out or developed, just sketches of something interesting. It's not something that's fleshed out in any way, complete or developed beyond an outline.
Imagine your body as more cavernous, roomy. Remove the guts & blood & bone & muscle. Deconstruct the insides to rebuild it as Hell. Remove the limbs, there's no running, no grabbing on to where it hurts.
The head: Entrapped in a prison of the skull, souls are entwined in the labyrinth of nerves running through the brain. Electric currents pumping through them endlessly. This is the punishment for Pride.
Gluttons get a buffet. They get to choose to dine on snot & boogers or saliva & vomit. The gluttons in the mouth are stuck between the teeth like a popcorn kernel, eternally begin gnashed and chewed. All the while being assaulted by bad breath. The demon in charge is the tongue, often swallowing itself to induce vomit.
The gluttons in the nose can see their freedom, they forever swim against a flow of snot being sniffed back. The sniffing takes out all of the air from the orifice, as if a vacuum being held up to the lungs. Unable to breath, the souls take in snot. The demons in charge are the impish nose hairs, prickling the souls & flogging them with their boogery bodies.
The eyes are the punishment for Envy. The demon in charge is the pupil, looking inward at the souls floating in the goopy orb. The souls are stuck re-watching, reliving the collective sorrows of the other souls with them.
The ears belong to Wrath. Unable to move in the bitter earwax they are drowning in, their own ears become hypersensitive to every sound, like a nail being hammered into the side of their head. The demon in charge is the eardrum, constantly banging on himself to cause booming reverberations, to cause screams.
Greed gets the gut. Boiling, melting, dissolving in the vat of stomach acid.
And reigning over the slimy, cavernous flesh, suspended in the center of the Hell entity is Satan: The Heart
The gluttonous being eternally pumping, thrusting, providing the rivers of blood that connect every damnation. Each new soul entering through his ventricles, distributed to their fitting torture.
Imagine your body as more cavernous, roomy. Remove the guts & blood & bone & muscle. Deconstruct the insides to rebuild it as Hell. Remove the limbs, there's no running, no grabbing on to where it hurts.
The head: Entrapped in a prison of the skull, souls are entwined in the labyrinth of nerves running through the brain. Electric currents pumping through them endlessly. This is the punishment for Pride.
Gluttons get a buffet. They get to choose to dine on snot & boogers or saliva & vomit. The gluttons in the mouth are stuck between the teeth like a popcorn kernel, eternally begin gnashed and chewed. All the while being assaulted by bad breath. The demon in charge is the tongue, often swallowing itself to induce vomit.
The gluttons in the nose can see their freedom, they forever swim against a flow of snot being sniffed back. The sniffing takes out all of the air from the orifice, as if a vacuum being held up to the lungs. Unable to breath, the souls take in snot. The demons in charge are the impish nose hairs, prickling the souls & flogging them with their boogery bodies.
The eyes are the punishment for Envy. The demon in charge is the pupil, looking inward at the souls floating in the goopy orb. The souls are stuck re-watching, reliving the collective sorrows of the other souls with them.
The ears belong to Wrath. Unable to move in the bitter earwax they are drowning in, their own ears become hypersensitive to every sound, like a nail being hammered into the side of their head. The demon in charge is the eardrum, constantly banging on himself to cause booming reverberations, to cause screams.
Greed gets the gut. Boiling, melting, dissolving in the vat of stomach acid.
And reigning over the slimy, cavernous flesh, suspended in the center of the Hell entity is Satan: The Heart
The gluttonous being eternally pumping, thrusting, providing the rivers of blood that connect every damnation. Each new soul entering through his ventricles, distributed to their fitting torture.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Found Poem
I took words & phrases out
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
---
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
of a textbook, two songs and one movie,
wrote them on scraps
of papers, threw them
in the air. This is how they landed.
the term is mimetic
Sufficient moments.
Do as the band says
so the band says: "Don't
be a whore." Annihilation
of beginnings, everyone crying
as they see your paradise
stolen, not lost. "Theft,"
so the band says, "assigning
theft to moths. Don't be
don't be a nuclear...
---
I turned Ginsberg
upside down but I couldn't
change the color of his side-
burns.
---
small Hispanic boys shout
at my car, windows
rolled up, from a street
corner in front of some
red place called Alfio's
---
But a very clear image
of four people, half
in shade, the sun on their feet
father, mother
daughterson, brother.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Recipe: Banana-Rum Splits
Recipe: Banana-Rum Splits
You’ll Need:
"- ½ Tbsp butter - 2 bananas
- 1 Tbsp brown sugar - 2 Tbsp dark rum or bourbon
- 4 large scoops vanilla ice cream - ¼ cup pecans, toasted and chopped
- 4 Tbsp dark chocolate syrup - Light whipped topping” (Goulding)
- Decades
* * *
Prep: 5 minutes
Mrs. Brown, my kindergarten teacher, looks sick when a truck that isn’t my mom’s finally comes to pick me up in front of school. Her face twists funny when my mom walks out of this strange car with no hair and a moustache. My dad introduces himself and says sorry for being late. “Family emergency,” he says. I take off my backpack in the truck, stretch my shoulders and ask him what took so long and where Mom was. He apologizes for being late. “Family emergency,” he says.
* * *
Step One: “Heat butter in a large skillet over medium heat.”
My mom comes out from behind the corner of the kitchen before I’m even halfway through the living room. The house feels muggy, like when I accidentally left my space heater on overnight and Mom got mad. I woke up sweaty, looking like Mom’s face does now when she stops me in front of the couch. We don’t sit down.
“Do you remember your cousin, Chad?” I see her face isn’t sweaty, but that she’s been crying.
“Yeah.” I don’t though.
“Chad’s passed away.” I can’t see a face, and I am still unsure exactly what a cousin means. I think we’re related. Mom goes back to the kitchen crying again and I start wondering if I’m going to have to do my homework today or not. My brother comes home ten minutes later with Dad. Why didn’t we get picked up together? I thought.
* * *
Step Two and Step Three: “Slice the bananas in half crosswise, then lengthwise, place the banana quarters in the hot pan with the brown sugar and cook on one side until deeply caramelized”
The coastal drive to Santa Barbara is my favorite, even if no one in the car is talking. I prefer sitting in the way back of the van so Jed and my mom and dad can each have their own aisles.
I imagine living on the beach. Not in a house by the beach, but in a shack I’ve made for myself out of driftwood, rocks and my furniture would be made out of sand. I’d have to move everyday when the water washes it away, but the ocean would always bring new materials.
Aunt Nancy’s house is behind a gate that has plants growing all over it. It smells like I think the bottom of the ocean should smell. Before we get to the door, Jed explains that Aunt Nancy’s kids are my cousins. I’m still unsure if that means I’m related. Cody, my “cousin,” is in his room when we’re hugged at the door by Aunt Nancy. She says Uncle Mike has been in the garage all day. There’s other people here, but I don’t know them. Everyone walks into the kitchen with the big window to the backyard, but I don’t follow them. They’re all crying and I’m not, but Jed comes back and gets me anyway.
* * *
Step 4: “Turn the bananas over and cook for another 30 seconds.”
“Chad was Aunt Nancy’s oldest son.” Jed says to me when we’re in our own room that night. I like Aunt Nancy’s house at night because I can hear the ocean.
“I know dying means you don’t come back, but doesn’t everyone die when they’re suppose to?” My mom comes in to check on us and leaves. She thinks we’re asleep. I hear people talking in another room.
“Well, I guess in the way that God has plans for everything, yeah.”
“If Chad was suppose to die, then why is everyone crying and why won’t Cody leave his room?”
“Because Chad wasn’t even thirty yet. Everyone is sad that he should have lived longer.”
“So why didn’t he?” Jed doesn’t answer. I am in a sleeping bag on the floor and Jed is above me in a bed so I can’t see his face. I think he’s sleeping. “Jed?” It’s stupid that Chad’s dead since it just makes everyone cry.
“Chad did…bad things. Do they tell you to say no in kindergarten? Probably not. Aunt Nancy told us that Chad went to bed at a friend’s house and never woke up… Chad use to give me haircuts whenever we came down here. He’d take an electric razor and run it right through the middle of my hair giving me a reverse mohawk. You, Chad and Cody would laugh every time.” It sounds like Jed is talking more to himself and I don’t want to be rude and listen. Jed stops talking soon and the ocean makes my eyes sleepy, but I keep them open because I’m afraid I won’t wake up after the bad things I’ve done.
* * *
Step 5: “Remove from the heat and add the rum. Be careful––even when the pan is removed from the heat, the alcohol can still ignite.”
I wake up and Jed’s not in the bed. I go out to the kitchen because I hear sizzling and I see Cody in front of the oven. He reminds me of someone else who was in this kitchen because of how tall he is. I also remember a bald head. I think I’m starting to remember Chad and Cody says, “Morning.”
“What are you making?” It smells good, like the bottom of the ocean should. Cody picks up a bottle that looks like the ones my mom use to twist her face funny at my dad for drinking.
“Breakfast.” I see an ice cream container on the counter to the right of him, the one next to the big window out to the backyard where the garage is. I look out but I don’t see anyone.
“You can’t have ice cream for breakfast.” Cody moves the pan off the stove and over to the counter away from me but tilts it down to show.
“Look, there’s bananas, that’s breakfast, right?” He smiles and pours the bottle over the bananas. Now it smells like the ocean really does, not like it should. Cody takes out two bowls with names on them that I can’t read, but quickly puts them back and takes out two more.
“Here, we’ll have ice cream for breakfast today and no one will know. Just you and me.” I think about Chad and the “bad things” and how he died in his sleep, but Cody has already made the bowls and I think that he wants me to eat with him. I don’t know where anyone else is, but I imagine Cody and I eating ice cream from bowls with names on them every morning in my shack on the ocean, waiting to see what the waves would bring in.
“Here, we’ll have ice cream for breakfast today and no one will know. Just you and me.” I think about Chad and the “bad things” and how he died in his sleep, but Cody has already made the bowls and I think that he wants me to eat with him. I don’t know where anyone else is, but I imagine Cody and I eating ice cream from bowls with names on them every morning in my shack on the ocean, waiting to see what the waves would bring in.
* * *
Step 6: “Place 2 banana quarters and any accumulated liquid in bowls.” Let it cool. Wait for it to settle in. Serves three. Look at the bowls that are full, not empty. “Top with ice cream, nuts, chocolate, and whipped topping.” Enjoy.
Works Cited
Goulding, Matt and David Zinczenko. "Banana-Rum Splits." Cook This, Not That. New York: Rodale Inc., 2010. 324. Print.
