7.03 / March 2012

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Allison.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] Please, no pity; these are facts.   My admission was immediate, unchallenged. The facility made exceptions. I renounced my name, possessions and liberties. I was allocated a private room – it was proposed as a temporary arrangement. At that point, no ward would have me.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Bradley.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] When Stephen Linkfelt was headed to his locker to retrieve his father’s M14 semi-automatic rifle, Cal Jones was in Art History getting ready to ask if he could visit the restroom.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Yates.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] When Sally drank Sally got ugly. Didn’t matter where we were. Could’ve been at the White House for all she cared. She’d get a couple shooters in her and start speaking up. Talking shit to anyone who’d listen.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Stalcup.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″]   Priscilla led Isaac by the hand outside, walked him to a tree, placed his back against the trunk. She pulled an apple from between her breasts and placed it on his head. She told him to stand perfectly still.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Tata.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] La Profe, Dulcia de Mendoza, paces in front of the children, her long hair a swaying pendulum, her name a fitting tribute to her inherent sweetness.  Aileen wondered if the dark smudge on la Profe’s cheek would be hereditary.

Nelson didn’t like that I was oysteresque, and that hurt. That is, Nelson didn’t like that I was oysteresque, except when he wanted to fuck me. Like now. He got some vocals going along with his a-bonging banging rhythm. “That’s right, girl.” His thrusts slammed the headboard into the wall. “Feels good.“ Slam. Slam.

1. The subject introduced under three heads Valeria pokes the sides of her baby’s fat stomach. She is amazed by his aliveness, by the hot breaths that drift down onto his rounded chest, the skin-creases where elbows and knees will eventually be.

Napoleon Refines His Palate in Purgatory Some scallops have smooth shells: others have ribs that radiate from their hinges. According to genus, they may be red, orange, yellow, black, or white. I stir the wehani rice in its banged-up pot, tear radicchio from its core. I call for caraway seeds.

REVISION: ELISE In one story you wash up on a cold shore, your blue lips parted                     around hidden pleasures- and even sodden, scrubbed by salt, cocooned in thick plastic, you blonde and you starlet; it’s my hope that a handsome                     agent of the FBI will investigate your death,           determine its mystical origin, but until then,

Every other weekend it’s three hours there and three hours back.  That’s six hours of listening to Samson’s mother talk and stopping every 15 miles so she can pee. Then we’re there and the guard hands me a sweatshirt to put over my tank top.

She’s savvy and slender. Her mama says she’s sassy. Her papa says she’s a sip of wine. Her preacher proclaims she’s bathtub hooch making all the praying men go blind. She’s the subject of every hush and hiss spewing from pursed lips dribbling over countertops, bars, and bone china tea sets.

I don’t know why I did it. I walked off of the subway this morning and there was another across the platform, going back the way I’d come. It was empty, and the doors were open, casting a warm yellow glow across the platform. It was so inviting.

E.T.! Phone Home! There is this story about Nolan Bushnell, the founder and CEO of Atari, and the video game adaptation of the popular film E.T. that he green lit.

Remember, back then? How we always lied? Oh, I know, she said.  She smiled, then laughed.  It was horrible. Wasn’t it?  Jesus.  I couldn’t take a piss without lying about it. I couldn’t manage it either.  She shook her head, smiling.  Remember that time? About your sister being sick? He laughed.  I remember.

  held the listening glass to the bare patch in the carpet a hole hidden to the un- finished floorboard under the plush animals at the foot of the bed     mother said: father said: television said:  body              stabbed     found the listening glass on the cabinet shelf in the kitchen hidden behind

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Nofitle.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] 1. It was a long ride. After we pushed our bikes up Laurel Hill, I was drenched. We maneuvered through the front door, dumped all of our belongings on the floor, and saw that there was no space to lie down.

is worth crying over.  Say the viaduct is just right for counting cars or contemplation or leaping.

After I finish I roll onto my back and she lays her head on my bare chest, draping her left arm over my waist. When it’s over there’s always this pain inside, like a small fist poking around in my gut.  But I’ve never told her this.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Martin.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] -After Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan Miss Mayella says There ain’t no better cure           for the blues than good pussy, and I guess she’s half right, but I prefer men when I elbow-crawl through Magnolias,           crushed cigarette butts.                     Just-shucked corn.

Kumi Kookoon California King Silk Comforter: $1500 In a charmeuse, the warp threads must cross over three or more weft threads.  Here, one can think of the weft as wrought iron and warp as concrete.  Both must exist for the weave to function but, inspected closely, it appears as if the weft is backbone.

Another Glass Essay [wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Henning1.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] Last night we discussed breastfeeding, but it didn’t start that way.  My lover and I were suffering an attachment to each other troubled by his six week training sabbatical in Minneapolis, worsened by how new we were to each other.

Black sneeze of spores. A postcard from Baja. Biscotti crumbs once gobbled over The Master and Margarita. Tulip mummies, stamens mashed. Glue-glutted silverfish. The cumbrous words; claptrap; supine; somnolence. A nickel dated 1985. Basquiat’s unbanked millions.

1. The Makeup Artist summoned the whore in her.  It was surprisingly easy and quick.  For most girls it took more prodding, but Mexican Whore #2 arrived eagerly, as if she’d spent her whole life waiting for this moment. “Good girl.  Perfection,” he says, spinning her toward the mirror.

Speaking of Serial Killers I’ve married the square of skin described beneath your cheekbone. I am drawing a map of the scar on your elbow, your village grin, your yellow eye. I dance like a heathen in the dustbowl of your indifference.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Butler.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] It turns out there is such a thing as a heart library. It is housed in the basement of a medical building behind a dining hall on the campus of a large public university. It is maybe a secret.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/7_3/Apekina.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] The first time Maxim Morozov died was in his mother’s womb. She hadn’t known that she was pregnant with twins, until just before going into labor, when she cracked an egg into the frying pan and found it had two yolks.