Month: August 2017

We Come from the Real

What I need is to escape into the material, the way of cinderblocks and bones, but even the lint in my belly bears a fragment of abstraction. What I need is to ditch metaphor and disappear into an actual coffee table starry with watermarks, have Eloise or Raul stash me in the cosmic storage unit to be feasted on by nothing, cloaked only in dust. Hell yeah I want to jam up against it: 70s pleather sofa, purple plastic pencilbox stuffed with Bic ballpoints, a single denim vest. Like a dad with a duffel he’s kept pact so long...

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Piss History

Inside my childhood migraines the house backs up into the prismed eye of my mind and explodes. A golden row of martial marigolds waver up the walk. There is something discretional lacking in my vision. The screen door is precious. The lilac bush, the lushy hush, the price of a careless walk piercing your heel. Sister’s backwards head refusing questions about the care of guinea pigs. Mother buys blueberries for the daughter’s slow but rising panic. Stained mouth, no hiding hunger. The nuclear family is always monogamous when whispering itself. Father stays up too late. Daughter dresses herself as...

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If

If you could pretend that you can love her even though you don’t really, or at least not yet, and what the hell is love anyway? Is it really a substance that you can grow or get high on? Can you overlook the alpha male’s perspective of the outrageousness of a woman’s unshaven armpits? Isn’t it so brazenly sexist of you? Creep. If you could pretend that there is some kind of hope when the bus passes you by in a downpour that leaves you wondering if being unfortunate is not the essence of water. Keep telling yourself her...

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Gerald, Vernon Hall

I have an idea. I think you might like it. Oh yeah? What is it? I pause, the spoonful of mashed potatoes before his lips. White horses. White horses? Yeah. That’s your idea—white horses? Yeah. OK. I like it. Spoon into mouth. His arm reaches for mine, slapping at the air, hits the orange tray. Milk sloshes. Chicken noodle soup spills over the top of the brown plastic cup. I wipe his fingers with a napkin. I might be able to get a job at McLean Hospital. I used to race horses there. Back when I was young. He...

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Start Over

Maybe I need to start over. There’s a methodology in writing—I am someone who loves the idea of artifice, of knowing what needs to be filled before actually throwing myself into the void. I believe in scaffolding—perhaps from days of working with my father in building a house; how I was unable to visualize the rooms until the sheetrock was being hung in place, that wooden slats that I could see through were not enough to see where a room was being created, a compartment where I would sleep, where we would eat. I am a writer who has...

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