6.12 / October 2011

One Man Ponzi

listen to this story

True, an oak smashed the roof, and mice cracked the cinder foundation, but, Sonny, aren’t you bored of balancing checks? Your brow’s furrowed, your eyes, puffed. Remember back when, when you ducked into ducts to slither from cops, and smoked dope in the tunnels beneath college quads? How you drove for two days to gawk at a riot and helped some madhatters throw bricks through store windows? You laughed at West Nile! Forged checks! Left chicks! Shouted worrying’s for prudes! Now, you’re shot through with vitamins and sad. Don’t deny it. Homeowner. Taxpayer. Your cell’s full with contractors-overeager exterminators, roof men and plumbers-who you call by first name. When was the last time you drunk dialed anyone? Or misspent your mortgage on cheese? Let’s be hapless, lackluster, homeless, broke. Kerosene the house. ¬†Coast downstate on empty. Quest for the waitress who sells pie by the pound. Banks forgive debts accrued during coups and, Sonny, I’ve got a bottle and a lasso. A manifesto. Pills.

Anya Groner's poetry and prose can be read in The Atlantic, The Oxford American, Guernica, Meridian and The Rumpus. She teaches writing at Loyola University.
6.12 / October 2011