The Brooklyn Rail

Mise en Scène

I am deadpan
delivery to your
front door. We’ll kick
soccer balls against
the house and talk about God.
I hate being a figment
of the internet. I stole all
the pretzels from the party mix
but eat nothing but a folded
Bemelmans napkin and sensibility.

I am writing a mumblecore film
and a giraffe will play the lead.
We shook hands and scrolled
past the food, then check Twitter
for the daily news. I misunderstood
your gluten intolerance. I dropped
a selfie for the algorithm between
the protest info and mutual aid.
Is my Brandy Melville insured?

I met a girl from Indiana who walks
but can’t divine any meaning.
I wash my face in an unguarded
puddle. I’d drink shots for breakfast
but Whole Foods is more than eleven
blocks away. Outside the window I
see my friends sleeping across Europe.
I fed you a match but you wouldn’t
take it. Jazz is cheaper than water these days.

We listen to last year’s songs in today’s clothes.
The mason jar exploded but you can’t see
the coffee stain. Let’s talk to seagulls
and commit to the bit. I do this, I do that,
I steal saltine crackers for lunch tomorrow.

I’d document my milieu but I don’t want
a digital cowboy bootprint. Who cares
about slashes when you’ve got commas.

I am running away
on the night train to Hudson. I see false cities
in the mountain tops, flickering for reason.

I only brought an umbrella and it brought despair.
I got so good at hide and seek
but no one wants to play.
The kid next to me hands over an olive
chocolate almond. It’s sticky and wet. It must
be Easter. I collect people. Monologues are cringe.
My teeth shift at night. I answered a civic prayer
in my sleep. I was groomed to be a rockstar, but I
caught a dizzying disease and hitchhiked cross
country against my friends’ ill-advised wills.

I am fighting fascists from my platform bed.
Sometimes I need noise, although I get tired of everyone’s voice.
I was asked if I had a crush on a guy or was just a junkie. Neither!
I forgot Joan Vollmer died when William Burroughs shot her.
I thought he just shot her.
My life changed the day I learned Burroughs became a writer after killing her.
Then I became a writer and stopped thinking about guns.
No one wants to loiter with me. I’ll befriend the “No Idling” sign.

I shouldn’t have turned on the jazz record.

I screen my film next to the gummy sour frogs.

My walking song came on while I was standing.

The cashier thinks my life was stolen
but it was only memory
and a two-dollar bill.

I Swore I Saw My Ex

I’m mentally sixteen.
The Clientele plays the chapel
where I would have danced
at senior prom if I had gone.
I don’t bother ordering a drink
from the bar. It’s too dark
for someone to buy me one.
I no longer know the person
who showed me the song onstage
about a silver ring in the flood
of my heart. All soft focus. He called
it a wonder. I was a whirlwind.
If being twee is a disease then
I don’t want treatment. I want pedals.

INTERIOR

in this house
we are served by rabbits

we walk side by side
in the narrow     carpeted       hallway
never mind the wine stain
it breathes on its own

i live on angel time
we smile twice a day

three times if it’s quiet enough quick enough
my smile is infectious enough
to pass through a walkie talkie

i spent the first day of summer in bed
with my phrase collector husband

a hand above my head

i feed him a single confetti cookie
if he is being good

he’s no dog

there are no alfalfa sprouts in this house
there are no adults in my living room

in this house i’m sipping
sauvignon blanc with rohmer
waiting for my turn on the casting couch

i’ve told every little star
that i don’t want my ennui       in black and white

i’ve achieved a new strain of calmness
but i don’t know how to embrace it

in this house
an airplane flies over
EVERY FIVE MINUTES
we have no clue where they land.

Tripping Down the West Coast

I met a guy who lived
in Mexico City. Said it had
more comings and goings
than New York. I believed
him because he was the kind
of stranger I ran into
every now and then without
any contact otherwise.
I was searching for flames
in a paper dollhouse. We only
congregate outside bars over
cigarettes or someone’s leftover
joint until nine months pass
by and we recognize each
other’s reflection under a dim
streetlamp after hours. I was
hoping he’d help me find a match
but he drifted around the corner
before I could ask. I kept picturing
how my window must look
when evening comes
unannounced. Your silhouette
crouched behind a sheer curtain
in a now empty room. Summer
used to feel like an eternity.
Another kid came into view.
I know him! He’s in a band
called Now and lives in a world
where it is always burning noon.
It all boils down to The Abortion
by Richard Brautigan except
you work at a cabaret instead
of a library. This is our historical
romance circa 2023. If you were
here, you’d be a hero in Berkeley.
He asked me how community
college was in paradise. I told him
I memorized this city
block as a child
but we’ve since grown
estranged. His lighter
gave out. I got up and walked
somewhere closed.