4.07 / July 2009

The dilemma: Mr. Barthelme wants to get married. He thinks. He has been thinking for some time now. He wants a Mrs. Barthelme (Do I really care if she takes my name? No, that’s not the point.). He wants a partner. He wants Marjorie. He wants to share.

When the ketchup picked a fight with the salsa in the fridge, I decided not to get involved, you know, let them figure things out. Later that night, though, when I found a coagulating stream of red fluid edging slowly across the kitchen floor I decided to look around.

I would hate hate hate to have blond hair and a black beard. Morever, I would hate being beat up because of my blond hair and black beard. That happens, you know. Hey Blondy! They say, and commence to fisticuffs. The black beard, at that time, is of course implicit in the “Blondy”.

She knows now that Hake Corse lives at the bottom of a long hill in Eureka, California. That when he laces his shoes, his fingernails scrape the canvas to make a sound like someone buried alive trying to get out. And he screams when he’s putting one over on you.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_7/Plotting Escape.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]   1. He put her on a shelf with other jars. At first glance her jar looks empty.   She had no intention of getting caught. Thought she was invisible against the overcast day, debris filming her eyes she could no longer see, but knew the captor.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_7/Plow and reaper.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] And when I slide back in, your arms wind over me, thin shadows tendril into sleep. Your legs the stick limbs of crickets perched in the white field or long as the deep rooted Oak we left behind. Your hips doubling, flutter.

e enjoy The Blues Club as a PDF so as to best preserve the poem’s original format.

(for Amy Hempel) There is a draining of a glass and a look towards the present and Joe says; I bought some clothes today. I went shopping.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_7/McGill-Prick.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] She says it like that. She says: “I know you’re the prick.” It’s Tuesday, 6 am. Dawn blushes the east as I stand amid a line of commuters awaiting the 6:10 to Emeryville.

He was mostly pimples and pus, layered over skin the color of freshly rolled pie dough. Leroy’s appearance was not improved by being the victim of a Frankenstein-long face and canines that were the forward-most teeth in this mouth.

The woman to my left leans over and pours beer into a passed out man’s mouth. Her bathing suit has dislodged and her right tit and long ugly nipple hang like a swollen udder.

Darrel Merchant was not known to have the best luck. He had Murphy’s Laws and the Corollaries to Murphy’s Laws taped to the wall in his basement office. One time, he bought his kids a swing set. He opened the box and pulled out the directions.

MACHINE roared to life Great steel beast Cobalt eyes Copper-wire teeth Smoking whirring Eager for flesh Dead yet alive. Ash pits pocked The crusted earth Hot lava spurts Burned passages in time Slivers of fleshy metal Banding across the valley Steel mesh x-ed the skies.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_7/rohan.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] Just as I reached the beach, it rained. The naked raindrops fell on my face, making me blink, and stuck to my lips, turning to syrup in my gloss.

That happened to me once, actually. Before Katrina.

That night I had a heart attack. That night I laid in bed and listened to the people above me have sex and I waited for my heart to stop once and for all. It was two in the morning and then three and I’m still rolling cigarettes while waiting for the end to come.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/4_7/valente.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] The ingredients emulsified — olive oil, balsamic, a pinch each of salt, pepper and sugar — and Jenna poured them over the lettuce she’d torn, adding a few sprigs of rosemary on top.

She practices stumbling, crashing kites, Spills ice cream cones, and Peels oranges with hooks. She decides that every day she is going on A first date, so wears lipstick. Reapplies lipstick, to her now Perpetual-red lips, Leaves conversations To “freshen up,” And sticks toilet paper to her soles.

Gemma’s craving the young American. It’s obvious by the way her gaze skips across the others like a hungry bird hopping from one bare branch to another. When her eyes rest on Megan Bloom, Gemma doesn’t blink. Instead, she swallows as if gulping down the girl’s luminosity.

Twenty-three million dollars was a lot of money and Annabelle deserved every cent. Twenty-four hours for thirty-three days, never stopping; exhaustion long gone, now transformed into something akin to transcendence and the encapsulated air within the hollow bones that kept birds afloat. Vision slowly returning; tear ducts drained, devoid.

The woman to my left leans over and pours beer into a passed out man’s mouth. Her bathing suit has dislodged and her right tit and long ugly nipple hang like a swollen udder.