SugarTank Copyright Š 2013 Aurora Killpoet Kleft Jaw Press All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. TRANSLATED FROM THE KLEFT BY: Frankie Metro and Bud Smith Cover Art by: Mark Bryan Interior Illustrations by: Aurora Killpoet
for the glamour boys.
Procedures
don’t call it poetry………………………………………………… 1 book open………………………………………………………... 3 war drobe ………………………………………………………… 4 bette davis is why god invented zyprexa………………………. 6 the claw……………………………………………………………. 8 the cross……………………………………………………………9 document 555..…………………………………………………… 10 dawn……………………………………………………………….. 12 again again now once more…………………………………….. 14 wake……………………………………………………………….. 16 head like a die……………………………………………………. 17 philanthrohomogeny………………………………………………19 destiny..……………………………………………………………. 21 homeliness…………………………………………………………22 salutation………………………………………………………….. 27 _____ _____ _____, ..………………………………………….. 29 a stranger love……………………………………………………. 31 declined…………………………………………………………….33 how to revolutionize in heels……………………………………. 35 fat………………………………………………………………….. 37 highlander ……………………………………………………….. 39 sex is why god invented prozac………………………………… 41 is it in, are you sure?…………………………………………….. 43 diamonds………………………………………………………….. 45 yeah……………………………………………………………….. 47 fuser……………………………………………………………….. 48 the father………………………………………………………….. 50 note to self: ………………………………………………………. 52 the mother.……………………………………………………….. 53
i
day dream ………………………………………………………. 55 montel/ricky/rapheal……………………………………………… 57 cat in a box ………………………………………………………. 59 fathers are why god invented zoloft ………………………. ….. 60 twelve minutes left, 56, 57, 58 …………………………………. 62 historical inaccuracy …………………………………………….. 63 dialyze …………………………………………………………….. 64 prophecy ………………………………………………………….. 66 small package ……………………………………………………. 69 stream of consciousness ……………………………………….. 70 see the cat, see the cradle ………………………………………72 barometer of incarnation ……………………………………….. 73 i’m just not kidding ………………………………………………. 74 electrode cathartic ………………………………………………..75 adrian……………………………………………………………… 76 unrest.…………………………………………………………….. 78 migraine…………………………………………………………… 79 but, but. …………………………………………………………… 80 kp………………………………………………………………….. 81 emergence ……………………………………………………….. 82 qualified for leasing ……………………………………………… 83 gratitude ………………………………………………………….. 84 start ……………………………………………………………….. 86
ii
Urban Dictionary “sugar in his tank� - A casual way to suggest a straight man might be a homosexual "in the closet" or bisexual. -girl- "OMG Sarah! Did you see how your boyfriend looked at Mark when he walked in the room? I think he's got a little sugar in his tank." Yahoo Answers "What does sugar in your tank mean?" Best Answer - Chosen by Voters: Sugar in your gas tank is not good...it will kill your engine... Snopes Claim: "Putting sugar in a gas tank will irreparably ruin a vehicle's engine." False. Because sugar doesn't dissolve in automotive fuel, it doesn't caramelize, and so it does not turn into the debilitating gunk this well-known entry in the revenge canon calls for. Instead, sugar poured into a car's gas tank stays intact. While sugar could still cause harm if it reached the engine (but in the same way sand would, by virtue of its being a granular contaminant, not because the sugar would turn to into a syrup), even that potential harm is generally prevented by filtration. www.livescience.com How Do Oysters Make Pearls? A natural pearl begins its life inside an oyster's shell when an intruder, such as a grain of sand or bit of floating food, slips in between one of the two shells of the oyster, a type of mollusk, and the protective layer that covers the mollusk's organs, called the mantle. In order to protect itself from irritation, the oyster will quickly begin covering the uninvited visitor with layers of nacre — the mineral substance that fashions the mollusk's shells. Layer upon layer of nacre, also known as mother-of-pearl, coat the grain of sand until the iridescent gem is formed
don't call it poetry try as he might he couldn't understand it. the gappy outlines the smudged detail made her suitable only at a distance. "amateur" he semi-whispered in an exhale of navajo smoke. her personality was a gallery of imprecise manifestos. all anger warped into a palpably deluded semblance of nonfiction. her palette her pattern pairings her vague ethnic allusions betrayed a lack of education of self-discipline of true understanding, the kind that comes from numbers and measurements. her inner pendulum swished a rhythm more alike than she had any idea but roughshod and oblivious to its monotonous pathos. her anecdote gelatinous. constructed without the backbone of detail. beginning middle and end, she was blissfully unaware of the rules and so unsure of how to break them in a way that proved she knew them but hate them but love them as he did. and this was future. this was what is good
1
what is real what is improvement over the standard he'd restrained his pen to incremental iambics to protect to validate the principals of a perfect system, he was now the error being erased to make room for something larger without dimensions that creates more questions than it answers that villainizes each fiber of the fabric now sagging off the bones of a child. still grunting and wildly motioning its frustrations just below.
2
book open "i'm enGAGED!" sopranos the exuberant 34 D (overbite) with direct, unavoidable, puppy pleading eye contact. one half of a high five, just dangling from the ledge of his cubicle. lost in math, counting: the number of times her eyes excitedly jump from each of his, the seconds it’s taking him to process a natural response, how many times her tits ram his cube wall (four). the eunuch grabs at this chest crotch, and stammers a very serial killeresque: "i'm sorry." at a very young age his feeling sack had been clipped away with a set of blue handled pruning shears, leaving only a soft, single purpose conduit of waste. production: all sorts of awkward monsters. Example: 2006: his ex's mother fucks her husband's co-pastor. also, her best friend's husband. story goes: best friend receives a tip. motel 8. best friend jumps into family eddie bauer edition in a tshirt. no panties. best friend arrives at motel 8 in time to see adulteress and pastor drive away. best friend pursues, sideswipes the enemy suv causing it to roll several times before resting on its head. whore breaks arm, pastor flees the scene, pantiless assailant arrested. jezebel goes in to hiding. a week post, gun shot heard from the in-law. jilted, sorry, sainted, husband pays x number of dollars to have tammy faye's face reconstructed. they are now living as platonic roommates. she day classes english. they will part ways. appropriate response: shock, silence, scandal, a shared feeling of distress and concern. actual response: unfiltered glee, uncontrollable laughter, a smile that lasts for days. best fucking thing he's heard in ever.
3
war drobe there once was a boy with black features and hair like a bucket of worms. his name was round at the head and ended squarely with a z as most of ours do so close to water. so well did it fit i thought to wear it as a hat. a john deere. how it clashed with my heels. but the color was right and any stylist will tell you: bold is the new demure. as inaccessible goes i was successful beyond wellbeing. so i kept it on the odd presumption that his father was moreso than my own. then there was a girl with thick glasses and a back like the trunk of a tree. the fact of her stretched like an equator across my middle. so warm i thought to wear it as a track suit. a pink one.
4
making the logic of my hips more than obvious but the color was all wrong. though any therapist will tell you: gender is a matter of perception. as affirmation goes i was successful beyond repair. so i threw it away on the safe assumption that i would never be confused for a man. and now i wonder. and now i wonder.
5
bette davis is why god invented zyprexa camera pans left from an unfocused dark to lean on a young lady over the black forms of stage equipment. familiar pieces having little to do with each other and less to do with the scene, but creating a silhouette of theater. a conductor's easel, rigging, lights, a ladder. camera creeps through the ladder's v. young ladyesque straddles the bars of a wrought iron bed, unmade. overhead, single starlight shadows features but catches on lip gloss. the sheen of a white slip wrinkled at nipples, bunched at hips. the muted sparkle of spandex tights rolled over heavy calves, bubbled at the knee. the bulb of a patent leather heel. nesting in her right hand, the barrel of a vintage revolver. a s&m .22, possibly impotent, salmoned in desirable patina. she sits mannish. gat elbow resting on her right knee. between the hills of her inner thighs one perceives a dark mauve triangle. camera tiptoes over the cut out. sliding down arm lumps, leg assumptions. slowly licking up the center of her (it. her. it. her.) to close in on a shimmery patch of mouth. stay. monologue vain forgettable. bang. lights out. cough questions ripple through the black auditorium. coy surfacing for bread crumbs. mistakenly. more-seekers. when there is no more. there is just this. it doesn't matter. no geiger bruising applause could match the beating of his heart. mascara runs the length of his beard. dirty splatters to the dip of his collarbone. he monologues the way he shouldn't. how community improv teaches weekend renaissance faire pirates to deliver lines as proprietary thoughts. many. many. ill. timed. pauses. flinging elaborate expletives like pike street fish from his geisha sleeves, dropping pointless anvils from his near-cunt. he paces the stage. context, irrelevant.
6
it doesn't matter. in his bedroom mirror shines the secret. no third-party disdain, no expectation of mass relevance. in this light he glistens. draped in shimmer perfect. from his perfect eyes (almay liquid liner, black; maybeline cream shadow, purple passion; urban decay, mildew green) to his perfect toes (bobbie brown, vamp; wet n wild chip resistant top coat). he is mommy's makeup gone so right. he is cabaret. he is bette davis, all about eve. and this compound in the northeastern region of his mother's house is a refinery. the lab where perfect is perfected, where faces are constructed for every situation. so many taj majals. here he will shove his fat fingers down his own soft, pink throat. provoke himself to heave emotion until empathy comes as naturally as breathing. until feeling is projected to whatever degree the mood suggests. context, irrelevant. fasten your seatbelts.
7
the claw she's coming to pieces falling down through power lines landing on manhole covers airbrushed car hoods like pieces of cake. the virgin mary come-fuck-me-smiles behind a straggle of aorta. arm-knees hinge on the apex of trees. birds nest in shards of hair and teeth find their way into jars of mayonnaise unattended. the sky is a crimson wash of knuckles and twisted remnants of scream vapors binding to the atoms of fatty aromas from the diner up the street. and he hangs her hand from his rear-view like a rabbit’s foot. fleshy nicotine fingers soon to be a petrified forest. acrylic leaves never turning a day past autumn red. the rats may have the rest of her but above his dashboard swings the best of her.
8
the cross as a newborn she was taken to a country road laid flat on her back baptized in asphalt. soft as water a shock absorber. added a quarter mile to the life expectancy of tires. from the crumbled edges of the I-5 seeped she to vibrant the orange groves to glossy their leaves. and she was pleased with her contribution. leave her no jesus candles bright with saint anthony and child. mary and child. no wide mouthed skeleton astride a black horse swinging a scale. no red carnations. they undermine her accomplishment. and who are you to make her martyrdom unbearable.
9
document 555 catch sight of self in the tile pretending to cry. it seems appropriate but looks ridiculous so stop shake out face suck line into cigarette. easy as standing. as turning a lock. scratching. terrifying how it no longer terrifies like a vasectomy in your sleep. natural feeling is not. mother liked telling strangers about her sensitive child's violent reactions to national geographic. running around the living room screams pouring from face as the bearded scandinavian clubbed baby seals. arms long enough to wrap around the world. retracted to whiskers by overexposure. public television + impotence = apathy education + incompetence = vanity innovation - funding = obscurity unsure of what should be felt of what would happen next
10
in its absence. search billboards and they say smile. eat. exercise. augment. retire. so do and drive on at a loss.
11
dawn yes you are 16 but it’s time you learned some things. for example breakfast does not make itself. you know nothing of chickens and how they walk postpartum. or just how wide elephant's ears must be before the yucca is soft enough for my gums. i'll take you to my mother's house. a century from the hot and cold running lights of manhattan. and yes your platinum curls and coral lips will melt in the watery island air. but this is how women are made. pound until pliable at the base of a coffee stone. sweating perfumed placenta. aphrodisiac as god intended. muscular feet and a chigger anklet for you. silly girl whatever made you think it would be different. lucy filled your pretty pale eyes
12
with exotic dreams of dominance over a man who sweltered an ego no larger than his pompadour. but my hands are 2x4s rough cut by sugar cane and palm bark. no goat skin tight enough to thump off the chip. take off your clothes and put on this apron. no need for shoes. the dirt is soft. forget your parents. they'll peck you to death now that your thighs have known the ruthless pace of slaves and arabs and syphilis french exiles. but this is how you have been born to me. and your name shall be aurora.
13
again again now once more at 11:27 pm a coil of pearls rest beside the ugly purple ashtray you picked up at the goodwill on mission. six shell casings and several cold matches give off their final breath and call you an addict. it’s raining seamed stockings in the shower. and in the bedroom sweet snoring erupts from a woman who claims to love you in her sleep. in the distance a train suggests elsewhere. and you spy your security pass card doubling as a coaster for your $50 table wine and read it aloud by monitor light. [your name]
14
wish for a hundredth of a second, it wasn’t yours. let your mind wander a fraction of an inch to where you'd be if you'd left it in the mail room with the other unclaimed parcels. then focus. hand wrap your eyes and tell your feet contentment is not the overdone dramatics of uncertainty. the romance of hollow point obsession. the distance between acrylic and cuticle or floor to the sole of your foot. the symmetry of liquid liner or the ratio of drinks to cup size.
15
wake she fell asleep watching a survival show. by 2:30 am it was over. some televangelist exorcising a seeing eye dog and i shut it off just in case her subconscious was gleaning any christian rock lyrics playing in the background. couldn't have her waking up straight or anything. jesus wouldn't that be just our luck. i finally give up eternity and she dons one of my dresses and heads off to mass.
16
head like a die margaret stuck her happy face to the inside of a gum wrapper and tucked it in the zippered pocket of her purse in the event she was ever photographed. she picked it up on her honeymoon in the bahamas. it was shiny elastic with vibrant sun patches on her cheeks and held many paper white teeth. she kept her lonely face with her cigarettes inside an empty folgers can in the pantry. pale and heavy with a t-shaped wrinkle lodged between her eyebrows. she shook it out on friday nights for rock hudson and clark gable. her work face slept in an empty bottle of cymbalta on the night stand. this face wore matte mauve lipstick and strong auburn eyebrows. it had microscopic pores. before i left for san francisco she handed me her cocktail face in a red bag with white tissue paper and a copy of dr. seuss's oh the places you will go!
17
tuesday she will be buried in her dead face with vomit crusted at the corners of her mouth and eyes half-rolled half closed as if she'd just heard the worst joke ever told. because no one will know where she hid the others and i'm certainly not giving up mine.
18
philanthrohomogeny after a long theatrical pause in the bathroom mirror i shaved off my adam's apple and left it rocking back and forth in the sink like a halved apricot. this was appropriate and expected by most. particularly he who surely remembers how between mouthfuls of not much at all i semi-smiled reassuringly and evaded eye contact. be there a singular redeeming aspect to my nature, its being conclusively aware of how little its actually about me. one should assume it never really is about me even if it’s looking right at me even if it’s looking just like me even if they tell me it’s about me i'm most likely being patronized. and like a fat girl suddenly thinned by rubber bands or staples it’s about being repulsed for several minutes at how it has no effect on your insides. still the odd man. the second left shoe. still deathly afraid of sharks. still stupidly optimistic.
19
still in excess despite the reduction. because it was never. really. about. me. and i could turn myself inside out. give my organs to the orphans and my shoes to the queens and my cigarettes to 18 bums one at a time. with or without my precious parts. because it has nothing to do with me. and everything to do with the whole which likes itself better when it’s empty.
20
destiny i'm not going to tell you anything about myself because it would only corroborate the misconception that it matters. every mili-iota of exertion spent pursuing the unreachable has been a cornucopia of misplaced spectacles - a nest of buttons, lint and hair shaved in the hopes it was a precursor to something richer than what was intended. more is a melanoma that eats daylight and fattens like an empty bed, like a casket it polyps pillows cushions the drop warms the dark suction of never into a tolerable reoccurrence. overextend yourself to clasp your hands around the waistline of the earth. stretch your mind to either end of gamut and hold each argument inside until the universe becomes small and familiar. a beach and you - its only grain of sand. a consensus. a congregation of one. an agent of unity of intent, act and consequence. you are the train. you are the conductor. you are the passenger but the track...
21
homeliness having brought the conversation full circle we are back to where pills are the answer. certainly internal medicine has developed a faster method of softening perspectives other than patience respect and other devices of a quainter era. as uneventful as the skip of a phonograph there’s the passing of a car in the time it takes for the tail end of applause to dissipate every cell in our repertoire is despondent and self-destructive. every bridge burned is a 20 mile detour and we have lost the ability to keep our mouths shut. the class to agree to disagree. we cannot retract tactfully
22
before the battle begins again. and medicating our ego is the only alternative to severing the heads of people we love.
23
24
25
26
salutation you left on a sunday, and it’s been monday ever since. the beginning of infinite labor spilling out from between the week’s legs. a fresh scented start to the foulest end. by eighth inch paper cuts. by 101 cigarettes. by black coffee and mounds of blow. acid gnawing at our casing snarling at our soft quivering heart. white underneath. so aware of our mortality it’s unhealthy. there are holes in us wide enough to abscond the hell of our conscience and the one that doesn’t scare us and the one that does not exist. holes wide enough to inhale the eternal void. to snort it up like his hand snorted the nail. to take the throbbing fullness of infanticide like the nail banged the cross. standing blind folded ready to fall in a hail of doubts
27
but too exhausted to pull the trigger. too broken to manifest any work of faith. exerting only enough effort to balance on the edge. to keep the razor a half inch above the jugular. to plug nose and push our inner cigar burns out to visible.
28
______ ____ _____. nowhere near anything that keeps ink and so you scratch on your knees. finger dig your way up the side of a prayer holier than jesus older than sin. and she doesn't understand. she'll never understand why the words seep through your pores. rise through your fingers. through the baby fine hairs on her neck instead of your mouth like normal people. or the ducts in your eyelids clogged shut with smutty novels years of mascara and pride. if everything is a metaphor for everything then the heat of your breath scatters adjectives to oblivion. buckshot to a hundred
29
unintended targets. it dilutes the sense of all things when a single look can encapsulate the bondage of forever. a kiss left to ripen on the ghost lines of a spider’s web until the lining of the earth is a recognizable shade of perfect is all the thunder trapped beneath your meager tongue. your inability to infuse the disarming stillness of her stare. intelligible tongue depressions on the backsides of your teeth are the reasons she will leave you for one who speaks less than half her essence.
30
a stranger love a man who adores you is to be neglected belittled dismissed and in all ways made to feel as though his ability to bypass slack enthusiasm imperfect thighs stage makeup cowardice and culinary disadvantage is sexist condescending and rude. go fish. hot guy wears a hat. hot guy wears polyester. he's a narcissistic pantiliner. a fetus murder-suicide. i can see myself straddling his chest tightening a seamed stocking around his neck with my right hand smoking with my left monologuing a rational ‘death as the price of sin / sin inherent at birth / birth a result of sin’ shrugging in resignation and rolling off his slack body as his eyes roll to white.
31
a man worth his weight in tears will despise the crinkle of your nose your freckles any concern hatched in your uterus and all other evidence of organs inherently female you may personally prize. if he gives you diamonds but nothing to write about clearly he's not the man for you.
32
declined you get to this point when you know what you're supposed to do or if you're lucky you don't. but it bothers you. and then you wait. you wait for some event some excerpt from a totally inane conversation to become abruptly aware of how little you belong wherever you are. and it’s not that you're better it’s that you're different. not everyone is meant to change everything. not everyone is meant to die or else no one would be around to take it for granted. and so maybe you have a baby or you vote independent or you buy magazines or cut down on red meat. become the urban symbol of comfortable giving. but at some point in your near future you will sit down next to a beautiful mexican girl
33
and her ugg boots who thinks Che is the fourth letter of the alphabet and this will bring you to tears for all that will not be accomplished by you or anyone you know.
34
how to revolutionize in heels hold the water bra against your smiths t-shirt. shoulders in and pout. would you wear it face down on your desk. paper clips and post it notes sticking to your stomach. "call your mother.� dislike yourself for 10 seconds. address the question of sexual politics and its link to the nation's economy. hate that your breasts are relevant to your paycheck again. say smart things to yourself in a sexy voice. to the frederick's cashier as you whip out your frequent buyer card in a condescending voice. assume you do not like people. read the times. be dennis leary. hate everyone for watching television. castrate men for both flattering and ignoring you. express yourself. don't cook. pretend you like porn. pretend you’re secretly a lesbian. your vagina is made of glass. pretend you can genuinely cum in wild predictable hedonisms with anyone other than yourself. snicker at muffin tops. call your best friends ho's and bitches. fuck their ex-boyfriends
35
and act like you don’t understand the problem. but above all else never apologize for being unique even if you’re the only one who thinks so.
36
fat as the car in front you pulls up you see the bottom half of a man's face in his rear-view. a lightly bearded small chin sitting on top of a much longer chin also sparsely populated but with a cleft. that's obscene you think jesus you think that's exactly what i'm turning into here at this drive through and then you hear his voice and you realize this man could possibly be younger than you that maybe he's turning in to you. and one day he'll wise up and order a salad sprinkled with crunchy chicken elements and a diet coke. is pepsi ok? no. it’s not. it’s possible that his belly button accepts visa that every day his keyboard is pushed further out of reach. that the buttons covering his floor are smashed to bits under the wheels of his Aeron style executive mesh chair. his desk is shrinking like yours. his shoulders rise like bread dough around his bra straps. his feet are flesh bricks his silly putty face stretched
37
to buddha and sagging through the middle his eyes pulled apart until they straddle his head like a goldfish in a thimble. fry by fry the world keeps getting put in the dryer. and his laugh it seems more desperate because it makes him break a sweat.
38
highlander the man with the large thighs in the aisle seat is named derek couch and he is important. think jesus. an irish, masculine jesus. not black, like us. but red. R75 flaming red by loreal to be exact. he told me. and it’s scottish rather. it’s amusing to watch his muscular hips suffocate between the arm rests, orange spray tan ‘roidmonger hands hopelessly fumbling the male/female seat-belt clasp. he did a line of crushed lunesta in the first class lavatory.
i'm wearing several layers of don't-care-how-i-look. and he doesn't. because he's not even sure where he is.
39
also, i'm trying to make sense of catcher in the rye again. there must be more to it than charming one line truisms in unpretentious postwar slang. just before he nods off derek suspects it was brilliantly crass and an unfathomably violent portrait of inexplicably dissatisfied american youth - epic defiance for its time. says he while comfort pumping his pecs under crossed arms. i suspect holden might have been nursing a touch of autism. maybe he should've been a wrestler.
40
sex is why god invented prozac camera slides right from behind a large assumed mirror and focuses on a silver lipstick case (prescriptive, red intrigue L24). ratty, synthetic, mouse-blonde waves tumble from above frame and splatter like a muddy waterfall on the vanity. she fidgets the case open and applies. bridge cable lashes and mouth agape reflect in the dark mirror. stuttering, echoed man voice to rationalize: “i’ve fucked before. shit. i’ve fucked lots of times. oh and i’ve had blow jobs and those count for more. everybody knows. head is way worse than sex.” she slithers under the sheets, squeezes four eye drops into her left eye, five into her right and applies her face to the shamelessly stained pillowcase. skirt hiked high around her waist, freckle chest heaving above the neckline of her silkish spaghetti strap negligee. the little spoon. light out. camera off. _______ she had him in a headlock. her right leg hooked over his left shoulder. her hips smacking into his lower abdomen in this rhythmless white girl frenzy-fuck dance he was supposed to match/anticipate/enjoy. he is thinking. he is going to punch her in the face just to splint his dick an extra 25 seconds. maybe even not cum. emperor style. just to piss her off. now begins turbo time. now. before he loses interest. his balls fill with giant nos clouds and go-go-gadget-hatchet. he’s pounding away at her insides with the fury of a thousand jack henry’s, knees frantically skating across her sheets. near splits and slipouts. a slobbery soap race to hit the carnival bell before his bagpipe telescopes. 6 mins 43 secs later he fails to roll a joint with his right hand and strokes her teflon locks with his left. counting the hitches in her back breaths. she is crying. and he is dead. nothing felt like anything anymore.
41
so close to closure, but not. a rolling stop. in this big white nothing there was/is only i’m sorry. for not really knowing what he’d done wrong. for not knowing how to make it better. for not caring. for every reaction being a dividend of frustration. for feeling no pain but the uncomfortable pressure of not feeling any. for thinking everyone was the same. for being able to convince himself of anything.
42
is it in, are you sure? in approximate years the single most devastating moments become indigestion. a hip that tells the weather. the mole that was my pierced nipple. a disease diagnosed and treated. i find value in the lesson and pity myself less the method of its learning. and this is unacceptable to the part of me that drinks alone that wears cake foundation and plays robert merrill on vinyl for the hiss for the cracks in what is unbearably sublime perfection modesty the island that is virtue that is cleanliness the banal and unleavened causes to believe all is not lost only hiding from the impatient and the indecisive. why must a man a woman endure past the end of their dignity to earn what is owed since the moment in time we emerge angry and hemorrhaged covered in pieces of our mothers. it has become easy it has become lazy it has become cowardice to believe in god to endorse a plan to have faith to wait on the invisible
43
the uncertain what is open to scrutiny the subjective truth that everything will be alright. that the universe will unfold as it should. that we are an essential an expendable part of a process constructed in the mind of a being who can see hear empathize with all yet remain at rest. that such a mind would need rest. when the rest we know comes to us in a box with an incinerator dressed in purple skin and clouded eyes. degrades us and makes us simple and selfish in the eyes of those we tried to love tried to lead attempted to protect and satisfy. and in that way birth is a greater betrayal than death.
44
diamonds borrowed a marlboro ultra light from a lady named regina also a lighter a mint and her body spray. walked it down to the service entrance to stand behind a trash can. first drag is a gasoline douche second drag is a kneecap. saturday nights skip across the heat waves. i swore to do something helpful if he stopped breathing. can't remember what it was. in 2 minutes and 35 seconds i'll go back to my office smelling like a funeral. my stomach will swallow itself over how appropriate it is she never loved me and how everyone that has cavalierly hopscotches around death while i hold their cell phones and hair. the contradiction of the modern geishabot is being man enough to be heard and woman enough to listen. to protect without asphyxia to comfort not coddle. to save whilst being available
45
for saving. everyone wants to be a hero sometimes. to fuck and fuck well and find satisfaction in the presumptuous gratification of fear modesty concern accommodation amnesty. five miles from here wildfires stuff their self-righteous mouths with everything that is right and the sun is the end of my cigarette. all things will bacon in our skulls under our breasts from the pinpoint spike of our heels to the hem of the sea. charcoal is every end. and from space we will resemble a bruise an injury of insignificant proportions. we will shrivel to the infinitesimal meaning of a grain of sand under the weight of stars we are yet to touch. we will contract until our skin reflects their innocence. all things made beautiful in their time.
46
yeah he told her she was no poet and she told him he was no man and he tucked his penis between his legs and she put her pen back in her purse and for a moment they considered the possibility that possessing the tools did not equip them any more than having a child makes you a father or buying a lotto ticket makes you a millionaire. and the world was flat and ordinary and benign and tolerant and unspectacular and eternal. and red was not red but RGB 204, 0, 0. and people were not people but watery ash shaken with the exhale of science. and music was math and math was vulgar and uninspired. and neither of them had ever sustained love or rebirth or injury only death in several impermanent forms. and the redistribution of particles invented by microscopes to keep them from vanishing.
47
fuser cuando lo pienso bien no anda bere. lo favorezco desnudo como el cristo velludo infante perpetuo. antes que su barba creciera necios parches como césped desecrado por perros egoístas. cuando la Idea aun marchaba singular profecía indomable. antes que mohosos cinturónes de artillería sepultaran su estetoscopio entre los muslos de su corazón llenando sus oídos con el latido de su propia amargura antes del aplasto de países como cucarachas superponiendo antenas y piernas peludas... cuando aun eran columnas sosteniendo el altar de bolívar ese niño muerto por descuido de masas ambulantes cercando hambre con anteojos provisionales con cuadernos explosivos y almohadas de rastrojo ese joven poseído por verbos legítimos cazo gritos y la tragedia de sinceramente creer que lo ganado es lo merecido.
48
fuser *translation when i think of him he's not wearing a beret much like jesus i prefer him in perpetual infancy. before his beard grew thick with patches like a lawn defiled by selfish dogs. when the idea walked alone an untamable prophecy. before rusted artillery belts entombed his stethoscope deep between the thighs of his heart. rushing his ears with the beats of his bitterness alone before the splattering of nations like cockroaches overlapping antenna and hairy legs when they were still columns upholding bolivar's shrine that child murdered by the neglect of ambulant masses fencing hunger with makeshift eyeglasses with explosive notebooks and pillows made of straw. that boy possessed by relevant verbs hunted screams and the tragedy of believing what is earned is no more than we deserve.
49
the father as a standalone without the benefit of scale i'm reasonably sized. an atrocity accessible. thus i've chosen to define my character with the events of december, 1989. he fell from a frozen catwalk out of the tree of life, a plumb ruptured three vertebra and was laid off. at this time he took to hosting imaginary conversations for which i received slaps with his high school ring turned to the inside daily. i once lost two baby teeth. at recess i nested them under my hot little tongue refusing to swallow all day just to give him a sense of accomplishment later that afternoon. a spray of typewriter keys as my carriage was returned. it was more than once articulated this was character building. a fact he's taken to forgetting as his hair has begun to leave him. i take this rejection of reality as an apology. less for the broken skin
50
the kneeling on rice the violence of our christianity and more for the event of my conception: my creation began as most others my age in a pair of mint julep tuxedo pants. his trunk was in need of a sedative like that of a baby elephant. uneducated and eager beyond his control. i am the product of my mother's submission. of spanish daytime soaps and their platinum chignons looping in his brain on fast forward. i am a child of god i am an only child and therefore a perfect illustration of regret.
51
note to self: who are you anymore? don't embarrass yourself. work harder. work smarter so you can work harder. tomorrow is the promise you make yourself today. you don't deserve him. you don't deserve a mouth. let your eyebrows enunciate the exclamation mark you despise. you are the rejected category. you are phonetic. the ruination of spell-check. your tongue is the spike of your heel. your soul is the width of your nose. the less you talk the more you mean. what you say is forgettable. talk more, talk faster. never let silence get the best of you. drink more, drink faster. what you feel is immaterial. your heart needs re-blocking. just one more hurt. just one more needle prick and he'll know. his addiction passed through your mother and now you are everything he was without the advantage of family or the blessing of forgetfulness.
52
the mother "you can do it" says she caustically ginger as a fanged lamb, leggy like an ocean spider supple, a strangler. tentacled loving me airless. liquid me dripping through her belly's hourglass my tiny hands fixed at noon by a railroad spike to the forehead. i am a sliding clock running out. she demands the production of faith spontaneously erupting life that I Cause to Become again something else another balloon animal the one she knows i can be. i inflate another cheek another set of lips a rhetoric horn a catapult of inflammatory projectiles living disproof of unnatural love apocryphal books and expensive cars. can i equal a set of bent knees would you mind a set of clasped hands she'll take a set of lowered eyes possibly dirt and air
53
if it’s not too much trouble fear and love iron and clay a pair of spectacles a tamed mind and one last thing, a missile for christ— whore mary and virgin mary perfectly submissive in my free will. the impossibility fused by He for whom all things are possible and in gratitude, my panties fill with tears.
54
day dream wikipedia cannot be trusted. she should have been dead by now. for sure, a heart attack. for sure. force of gravity(body mass*distance)= an air sandwich. for sure. ribs should be leaving grill marks on her heart by now. in 4 seconds she would have been at this for 15 minutes and her heart rate was beginning to normalize. she'd settled in to an easy chair position eyes open again her mind searching the clouds for animal shapes falling at unperceived speeds towards the lightning rod atop the empire state building. self death is like ass sex is like special ordering a burger the longer it takes to come the more you start to worry. the more adjectives are found for just the kind of self-absorbed near-sighted slave-to-immediacy you really are.
55
pointlessly she screams. sounds so fake when you're doing it to yourself. why should you flinch when this is what you want? is like eyebrow plucking is like pimple popping is self sexing. seconds before the rod is to pierce her sternum is her back to snap in 42 distinct places is her left leg to break off is her brain cum to slide off the 90 degree cast iron pinnacle onto german tourists who will certainly blame the pigeons? dirty pigeons. she nods off to bored impervious sleep and her uncle rolls off her and lights himself a cigarette.
56
montel/ricky/raphael at 16 or 17 it all came out. my mother's eyes bled. like a nerve gas victim. it’s a condition. talk shows had convinced me people talk. and it was the only way to keep from cutting my breasts (though it seemed counter-intuitive.) or perhaps one day slaughtering my parents (i’d never really thought about it.) more importantly montel said that at the moment of disclosure my guilt would fade. maybe my face would even clear up. so i started at four. earlier is plausible, but difficult to confirm. regardless i bled on the orange tricycle seat and it was never a kidney infection. so i've taken a lot of unnecessary medication. and my face is as close to my goulash and egg noodles as it can be without touching it when i explained why i had to bury my barbies in a row between
57
our apartment and the morning glories. how their stiff legs and angled feet were more painful than the turkey baster. and how my grandmother chuckled when he'd chase me around the brown shag with it. and my heart is a gagging locomotive. they can hear it. i know. he could hear it. smell it on his sheets. vomit that made him giggle and think himself huge. i cry when i vomit. not because it hurts, but because when my finger touches back the assonance is blinding. i actually said that. the assonance is blinding. and the goulash splatters all over my dress and the hard part of my father's hand, class ring on the inside, like a screen door in a hurricane, swings back for my face. it shuts. this conversation is closed. and his eyes are taped and secure. and it’s raining subtitles. and i’m so glad i did this.
58
cat in a box something goes wrong when good christian girls are penetrated by good christian boys in a unisex church restroom 11 minutes after their vows. dissecting my mother's awkward pious sexual pathology materialized: in the background of family photos; leggy trips to the supermarket; cleavage adjustments at the full service gas pump; lusty gazes over pot roast at the family reunion. and she sings so loudly but barely glances at her hymnal. and you wonder why she crosses her legs during service if not to antagonize the rug burn just above her hemline. and your father experiences a displaced tingling in the work of his creator. and you wonder how any part of you could possibly have come as a surprise.
59
fathers are why god invented zoloft camera eyes open as if from sleep. stage empty, except for a chair and a single inquisition beam for its occupant. pure white light wraps the upper of her face in black gauze, but blues electric the solid white streaks in her wiry farrah bangs, causes the pink pearl of her lips to appear subtly lavender and her skin paler. diphtheria. she is dressed. sensibly. shoulder pads for balance. flats for balance. gently breathing. gently sitting. inverted triangle outline suggesting legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in lap. angel wings outstretched brilliant white with blue/black contour. camera closes in from the right to focus on lips/chin. tear tracks run through her foundation (prescriptives, liquid custom blend) and in the unfocused area to her left, a headless man in navy pin stripe, dark tie and white shirt. gold tie clip. baseball bat. smack (hand) smack. what were you doing? i was putting in a tampon. jesus christ. there's something wrong with him. no. there isn't. any kid would have been curious. he's perverted. a pervert. man walks out of frame then back again blocking camera. from beneath his left elbow, a marble hand with light pink (lavender) nail polish can be seen inching down her thigh. tugging her skirt a centimeter closer to modesty. the bottom of her right wing folds against the gray stage floor.
60
do you know what a perversion is, linda? when the angels abandoned divinity for earth women. it’s unnatural. demonic. your son is a demon, linda. aren’t you ashamed? joe, i didn't know he was there. (a lone tear suicides off her cheek.) sure you didn't. camera sleeps. exhausted.
61
twelve minutes left. 56, 57, 58. rice has a tendency to penetrate the skin when knelt on for more than half an hour. an island-style cilice penalty with a seventy five minute minimum. if not removed, the ingrains leave raised scars which closely resemble maggots and move rather realistically when you bend your knees. maggot boy. as a teenager, it had proven an effective method of birth control. of general penis control. cindy crawford's nipples, the crowded hallway penis graze – an accident, night rider, the word naked, the words horny, suck, masticate, isosceles triangles, any noun causing the head of his penis to stand proud instead of towards hell sent his hand running for his maggot knee. the comfort of precise consequence. well done, pops.
62
historical inaccuracy sponging off the people who were less troublesome to forget. your mind takes the shape of a rotary dial. initials in the finger holes the still frames of important events bubbling over faces random areas of focus a hospital bracelet basket weave a tiny wet footprint wisp of light hair and grass green front tooth gap a cow in the distance. and you nod vacant your smile extricated your grandmother’s language in disrepair and this living for now forsaking the former headfirsting the latter without the courtesy of deliberation has made you monochromatic indeed. dotted lines do not a string make.
63
dialysized the orderly is making a mess of things. fumbling the charts, wiggling cords cross-stitched into tender parts that aren't his. obviously. quiet and saintly robert would have loved nothing more than to tear off this orderly’s arms and beat him with them. then perhaps dispose of his body someplace poetic like the bio hazard dump on staten island. but not now. his cathartic eye the stroke eye is closed to dead, his other distracted by the cyclical pulls of a slurpie machine next to his lazyboy. four hours every other day sucking atomic cherry from his right fistula it funnels through scrubbing circuitry - a face with red glasses. he smiles
64
before i can vocalize the observation. at this point there is no unnecessary dialogue. not that it’s too taxing, but he already knows. it’s easy at this point to forget this crumpled paper doll, this twisted whisper of an echo in his suit of vacuum hose arteries and black button eyes ever sifting methodically rinsing your skin and thoughts every experience locked between your jaws as just cause for every and anything not accomplished was once the adonis of your grandmother's avarous.
65
prophecy her undertaker would wear an orange vest and beat his wife for burning coffee. and the difference between her face and what used to be a high top sneaker would be that it never helped a boy run faster, jump higher be better. her old man told her all about it when she was nine in the stained back seat of an old camry with his fat dark hand clamped onto her thigh like there was elmer’s glue drying between her muscle and bone. told her she'd grow up to adorn the shoulder of an interstate. and she thought she might stuff her mouth with maxi pads and hang herself with her training bra to illustrate his point.
66
67
68
small package take a good look at this face because tomorrow i promise you won't recognize it. say goodbye to my half-eaten smile and dilated coffee cup eyes. by morning something clever will be chiseled on my forehead and all features below will be swallowed up into my skull leaving behind a treasure map of dramatic fault lines and forget-me-nots. ex marks the spot on my withered chin where your fingers told their last lie.
69
stream of unconsciousness so you make your final descent to black out on the wings of furious little blue nothings whispered into your belly... hawkings comes to mind. how ghastly. you hope he burns. all those incoherent illustrations of publicly understood science. fuck. man brain sans the duress of being even marginally fuckable becomes a greedy goldfish in a very large bowl. quantum mechanics hearty aneurysms the size and shape of fists mouth punch awkward air vents in to cocktail parties brilliance powdered, cut and inhaled speeds the heart to coma. a rush of primary colors and trigonometry clog his thought-to-noise converter so he sparks and crackles only dirty things to me curses incessantly while pointless images float up from his porous bones like constellations at the planetarium. think trains running both sides of a molten chicken wire track weaving into and over itself interminably. the same train is departing now. now. now.
70
and now. leave now just to come back as older but younger looking than the twin you left behind.
71
see the cat, see the cradle nothing. from this moment on you'll get as much as you've given. which is absence. deterioration. a tapestry of tonsils solar plexi and other useless organs draped over hollowed eye sockets - rolled and stacked against the fleshy walls of a toothless cave... muscles pumping less than oxygen into purple strands of inner skin. vocal chords woven on castilian looms. naturally an anvil to the ear and a vice fixed at the apex of who you were and who you are. buckshot a freckle of shoulders bulky but unstrong. soft bone still there but not yet ready for the dead weight of a womb shaken for the prize.
72
barometer for incarnation woman penises are called hearts. man vaginas are called attention spans. sizes disclosed when appropriate. the smaller they are the quicker it’s over.
73
i’m just not kidding please pretend this never happened. even if you are shown photographic evidence even if our boot prints match exactly even when the spot shines squarely on your face and everyone knows what we claim is purely fiction. never once blink your fists or let your eyes tilt to the left. roll your sweat beads up tuck them behind your hairline like a diamond tiara like a halo. persist in filling the space between your lips and their brains with plausible scenarios. bring the dead to life and wedge a pen between their starchy fingers. blame the war the lack of jobs the nonexistence of careers the homogenized milk. pesticides. take no responsibility for our part in what was written from the time we were born until the time we finally stop trying to exist which is certainly any moment now.
74
electrode cathartic start at the beginning and stop when you lose interest. empty your insecurities into the fiber optic ball of a pennish instrument loose photoshopic ideals of the inner you to a crowd that will discard the outer you as it transforms/ reforms itself again and again. feed the needless jealousies of an infant swaddled in sagging skin. tell yourself it’s you. your smell your parents the books you read that fill the room with a settled sense of quasi martyrdom and not the miles of pixilated tesla coil you've placed between yourself and the thrill of encounter, the neurosis of personality the noisy bar the pretentious proponents of sex and camaraderie at the hands of a stranger of someone other than yourself.
75
adrian she had red hair and that made perfect sense. she wore orthopedic oxfords and faded pastel twin sets. she collected dandruff and flat front chinos in a variety of neutral shades that stretched where they shouldn't have stretched and gathered violently at the crotch in a way that made you wonder. her presence was detectable by trace echoes of complete bullshit and a lingering cocktail of an "obsession" knock off, petiole and black coffee that brought me back to the stairwell in the projects equal parts urine, pinesol and old hooker spit. she'd been the office manager since i was nothing but the sparkle in my father's masturbatory fantasy. and i hated her for her smell and for her animal trivia and for her bowl of stale halloween candy in august and for the box of happy birthday it’s a girl over the hill bon voyage decorations under her desk. and the day they find her head
76
i'll probably have to give her stapler back.
77
unrust until you can open your mouth without your hand up my skirt and i can open mine without letting out a lasso, it’s best we don't speak again. timing is a wrecking ball to the unlucky and a cue ball to the wise. if only we weren't cogs hooked back to back in a wrist watch. wound up and set to spiral in opposite directions trying to put as much distance between us as possible. but going nowhere. finally in sync at the wrong time.
78
migraine how impossible to tell at first how minuscule the act so plain so mercenary in its brilliance so concealed so subtle the descent scarcely bends the knee inclines the head fractions of a degree. arms concentrate against the body in closer and closer self-embrace thighs press tan to white and the edges of world have never seemed so near its fray so visible palpable by every surface, the air becomes more and more your own exhale more frequent, brief, intentional. ineffective.
79
but, but. for three quarters of a second there was no envy, no sarcasm. no de/reconstruction of the idea. no shuffling of adjectives to make it more or less something she could have said. the concept was clear and yellow, inclusive and capable. a pile of clean white socks on a made bed. and it was enough to let it be about everything, to not make it about her. it wholed a vacuum big enough to crawl into, to make a life there. to never leave. there were enough buts in the clink of her change purse to park in this spot for the rest of her life. let others build families architect five year plans coordinate business casuals temporary eternities bubbles blown through a hand mirror. if there was more to it than that she'd missed it. the entirety of her devotion, her ambition to alter rectify delude the evil inherent in her imperfection drained through a prick on her finger made by this point.
80
kp familia. like minded blood buckets sloshing words all over ourselves. vile little bile eaters. mercenary thought. ink stained bravado. rocking, warrior paint as a birth mark as a birth, write sarcasm red. herringed delusional hope misplaced empathy shattering. the form had it coming and we've read enough to know. this is where it’s going fast as our little fingers can carry it far, far off into the shrinking you'll find us. in the acne scars of a pubescent moon. viva.
81
emergandsee there are no beds available. so you're wheeled into the hallway. let it occur to you that this is the home stretch and that the light at the end of this tunnel may very well be god though labeled radiology. here you are asked to sleep. in this ventricle artery of unscheduled dilemmas, pulsing with a synergy meant to blend itself invisible but instead layering white on white, clocks tick against lab coats. years of med school interpret stats onto clipboards. rubber clogs pat eggshell linoleum every hour, on the hour. small bags of clear fluids weep over the wheeze of the injured and/or dying and/or dead. ball your hoodie into a pillow, lodge yourself between her gurney and the glossy navajo coated wall and use the veins on the insides of your lids as an abacus to quantify the hurts too much to cry - the number of fractures spidering her pelvis, the mustard bruise shadows on her upper / lower back and abdomen. on her heels. in her brain. quantify what is ok. allow yourself to overhear multiple gun shot wounds. enjoy a morphine induced sex dream while his wife has blood drawn for an hiv test. reject every impulse of self-preservation and stare as a biohazard body tupperware container the size of a football rolls by. accept the perspective and hold it in as long as you can. an enema of forsaken epiphawhats. embrace it as a living newborn with just as many fingers as toes, with just as many eyes as ears, as the most casual of miracles bestowed upon the undeserving, as evidence of benevolent powers, as forgiveness, as atonement, as a new car, a second marriage, as a broken parking meter.
82
qualified for leasing. it’s time to inter dreams slowly expired in your arms, after acknowledging your betrayal with a forgiving furrow and a gentle mouth. time to rest the ashes clogging the pores of your skin, blossoming black lacquer ferns in the wetlands beneath your bottom lashes. retire all. but the blood splattered onto your face desperately coughed into the hinges of your glasses, impossible to clean. a gift, it was never really yours to begin with. they are the wounds that clot but never heal. that remind. that dignify responses. it is the emblem of your evolution. your brand. the certified cause that continues to affect. the qualify to your hollow try, your nude vocabulary the amnesia assaulting your tear ducts. this mess that streaks, that streams so red and viscous, screams a declaration of sovereignty. a hall pass to blur actions/ events, thoughts/perceptions, enunciation/body language. permits you to make yourself the centrifugal point of you. your purple heart. it is the ring master's top hat. show ponies whipped into merry-go-round the iris of your eye. it is the singular pen. the only recorded thought. making all possible but implausible. drown yourself. relinquish your liver. replay your fall over your mother's tongue or your father's broken bottle. over your husband's needle or your girlfriend's spiked heel. over your uncle's penis. the penniless wage higher for obvious reasons. veterans are regarded. one way or another. if eternal life can be bought instead of accepted, the vestiges of your could have been are the price.
83
gratitude what you've done exceeds the limits of all calculable miracle. you have swallowed every lost sock every temp file modified and saved into apparent nothingness every age enhanced milk carton child and regurgitated the meaning of life. of all the wrong things to say "thank you." is the worst offender. there are crimes we commit against ourselves so heinous any punishment would be reward. how to grab each shoulder by the mouth and shake it until it understands the earnestness behind our fingers when they say you've changed us. reduced us to amino acids and rebuilt us in the image of your wife your son the darkest most unholy you the daring most hopeful you. how to say you've lobotomized
84
each strand of liquid soul we own and replaced it with rainbow yarn and the hair of fallen angels. you are the snow in our globe that makes today feel more like yesterday and tomorrow seem more manageable more pliable than the stones we've written on and planted on the face of this near sighted eternity we call the word.
85
start to the ever incomplete a dissidence waned so far beyond form so purposed to tie the loose ends of spectrum into pretty bows yet failed as a masterpiece of paths. lost en route to rome to god home. the way one molds oneself around a yang with a guardian eye at the center askew. presenting the available void. the cog with teeth of all shapes spread far enough apart to grasp a restless pursuit for perfect fit. being half the man your mother thought she married. being three quarters of the who you ought to be. being practically everything being virtually nothing to adam. a subservient equal as the moon reads by starlight. foregoing love as it’s known to most.
86
to know love as the mirror does. the buoyancy of a mother the cadence of a child. a silent mouth agape to the halos that surround the uncompromising. these are the beginnings that will not outlive the ends but instead brick their core with muscle so that their marble may at last touch the sun.
87
artist: mark bryan mbryan@kcbx.net http://www.artofmarkbryan.com/ Born and raised in Southern California, a child of the Fifties and Sixties, Bryan could not avoid soaking up the pop culture and angst of that time and place. He was fascinated by cheesy Sci-Fi movies, super hero comics, Mad Magazine, Salvador Dali, The Twilight zone, Zap Comics, etc…….. All of those plus the "duck and cover" mentality of the Red Scare had their shots at a sensitive mind. Adding to the constant threat of atomic annihilation, the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam War, Kennedy and King assassinations further provoked a political awareness and a sense that all is not right with the human species. When the time came to choose an occupation Bryan studied architecture briefly but soon realized art was his best path to free expression. While attending Otis Art Institute in Los Angeles (Master of Fine Arts, 1974), Bryan took up with the early founders of the Chicano Art movement (Los Four). They introduced him to the Mexican Muralists’ work of the early 20th century and the value of a tradition of accessible work with social/political content. This realization combined with his early influences have come together in his work to create a unique and engaging brew. The continuing wars, terrorism, political hi-jinks, and the deteriorating environment have only reinforced his early perspective and provide a never ending supply of subject matter to work with. In spite of the disturbing nature of his topics, Bryan always manages to portray them in a humorous and seductive fashion.
88
Although most known for his political work savaging the Bush administration, Bryan also directs many of his efforts inward, producing work from the imagination. At first impression, this surreal and whimsical work seems just for fun but usually contains underlying symbolic comment about life in these times and human nature in general. Bryan has exhibited his work throughout the US, Canada, Europe and Japan. His work appears on numerous satirical and political web sites across the US and internationally. It has also been featured as illustration and cover art for publications, including Juxtapoz and Adbusters magazines. Bryan has lived on the Central Coast of California for the past 37 years and tries to paint and surf as much as possible. He has a son, a daughter, two granddaughters and a cat.
89
author: aurora killpoet aurora.killpoet@facebook.com www.killpoet.com
aurora killpoet currently resides on the west coast, though originally from the east coast, and on her way to middle america. she works too much, reads on airplanes and starts her days with a documentary—usually about war. she is fortunate to have been found worthy of such literary pedestals as OffBeat Pulp, Slurve, Twizted Tungez, Absurdity on the Rocks, Brainbox, Kleft Jaw, and before she was recruited to help run it, the mighty KillPoet Press. most recently, she contributed to a collection edited by Bud Smith, entitled First Time: an anthology about lost virginity. the greatest compliment her work has ever received was from an avid reader who insisted on a phone conversation to declare his profound emotions and pure intentions—only to be positively outraged by the fact she was a woman.
90