I. You thought this would be a dance lesson, things were easier then. No marimbas, no clarinets; only a longing for the fun to begin. Rain came down. Nothing seems as remote as the days you didn't have to think about it: always already there, gushing out. Control was required to stop ideas from overflowing. You did your job well, you killed them as one kills Easter baby chickens. II. Rasputin was on the lookout. Magdalene had multipurpose hair: Kumernis had it in stocks where and when she needed it, on her beard especially. Anything to keep the Barbarians away will do. Chopped noses, rotten chicken stuffed in corsets. We were told that the demons would come out in Maine. They hate recollections and certainty. Their favorite verb is sabotage. III. Rasputin helps one to recognize inspiration; but, oh, what could imagination be? To retrieve, to plunder, to forge. To be bored. To rip kites so they may stay on the ground. To forget jokes and misunderstand common sense. To sit for four hours without getting up. To count words and people and only remember their numbers. To listen closely to what loons could be trying to say. To permutate dots so that lines are never identical to each other. To return to known places and act always the same, thus the slightest change might become apparent. To force things to happen. To pretend there's meaning when all that comes out is a "My dog loves me and he's no showboat." To think there's nothing to say. To leap from canopy to can openers to can open her. You've begun, now use your props.
Mónica de la Torre
Sonya's so good that all the guys pick on her, so the evening's narrative goes. I've heard she wears yellow t-shirts each time to match her hair. Last time her tennis shoes got so dusty that she had to throw them out because there was no way on earth that they could be white again. Trunks shrink like deflated accor- dions, like melodramatic arguments after they've met face to face with someone's indifference. A baby cries and pouts while her mother is trying to scoop more Velveta on to her nacho. The father is strung out on something, someone in back of us says. A teenager with severe acne turns around and fires a dart full of cavities into my gaze. We give in to the pleasure of destruction for the sheer sake of waste. What inside, the collision, the jerk on the nape that makes the driver wonder whether this one's it. Swallow me dust while the crowd cheers and claps its French fries away into the space between a nearby neon and the floodlights gathering an army of many sized moths.