Five Poems

August 05, 2015 in Poetry

By Laura Warman

These originally appeared in Route Nine.

Purchase

Why I Don't Want Your Dick There In That Poem

July 28, 2015 in Non-Fiction

By Laura Warman

I am the poetry editor for Queen Mob’s Teahouse
I am also a reader for jubilat
I am also the editor of my own press, GLASS PRESS
I read submissions a lot
Probably every day
Often I come across images of dicks
These dicks aren’t necessarily connected to a body
These dicks throw themselves on the page
They have no fears, they are not vulnerable
These are very specific dicks
Let’s call them cis-male, white, straight, upper/middle class dicks
Of course that isn’t all
Of course I can’t categorize these dicks in this way
Recently I rejected a poem on the sole basis of what I viewed as a problematic positioning of The Dick in the poem
The Author of the Dick Poem replied saying I was “asinine” and “foolish” for rejecting a poem based on this
Of course I am both of those things!
The Girl
My rejection of the poem was seen by him to trivialize my position as an Editor
As-If editorial choices are made without bias!
Editors are generally white cis-males
These editors are generally treated as if they are without bias and publishing the Best work that gets submitted to them
Because I have never been able to see or write past my body I am the one with the bias
But, we are all working within the hegemonic patriarchy of capitalism
I show you my bias freely
I, the woman, (the Dickless), am at the other end of binary desire in the rape culture
Yes, Literature is reflective of this rape subculture
Yes, I am opposed to poems that support the binary of power, aggression, desire
The dick in the poem is always doing something
The dick in the poem is not static

Originally published at Queen Mob's Teahouse

Purchase

Warman Writes About Sex

July 24, 2015 in Essay

By Laura Warman

WHAT IS SEX??

Many people have questions about what sex is, but it isn’t always easy to get good advice! Here is some good advice! Last time I had sex it was on the stairs. Can you believe it? Have you ever had sex in a bathroom? I have, just while I was sitting on a sink. I let my legs hang on either side of the sink. How did I not break the sink? Have you ever broken a sink? I thought I had broken my sink in my new house because I often cannot stand in the morning so I lean all of my body weight against the sink. I lean so hard I lean so forward. My hipbone feels nice with the pressure from the cold ceramic. What are sinks made of? My sink feels hard and cold. Have you ever felt hard & cold? Hard things don’t always feel cold… Sometimes when I turn on my sink the water comes out so fast it pools at the bottom of the basin. Liquid mixed with hair and- look at it- the clogged sink. What clogs a sink? Can I ever release everything that is stuck? Sometimes I turn on my sink too hot! Have you ever felt anything that hot? I put my hand in the water and just like that I have to remove it. I want the water so bad but I can’t have it- not like that.

Some people birth in the water. The water fills with everything- shit, blood, placenta. This seems like the best way to give birth. Is birth sex? Sometimes women have orgasms when they are giving birth so it is sex too. Pop that cherry! Kim Kardashian probably did not orgasm while birthing because she probably did not give birth vaginally because the baby was five weeks early, weighing five pounds. In Kanye West’s album Yeezus on the track ”Bound 2” he states ”How you gon’ be mad on vacation” and ”Got a fresh cut straight out the salon, bitch” and ”I’m tired, you tired, Jesus wept”. Most important is the line, ”I wanna fuck you hard on the sink/ After that, give you something to drink/ Step back, can’t get spunk on the mink/ I mean damn, what would Jeromey Romey Romey think?” Kanye West not only has a thing for fucking hard (look back to his tweet: ”I just fucked Kim so hard”) but has a thing for sinks. In his 2010 album ”My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy” he says, ”Been a long time since I spoke to you/ In a bathroom ripping you up fucking and choking you” later in his collaboration album with Jay-Z ”Watch the Throne” Kanye West states ”Meet me in the bathroom stall/ And show me why you deserve to have it all”. What is it about the sink? What is it about the bathroom?

In the morning my sink is often my first feeling of the erotic. Are some sinks more erotic than others? I was reading Dwell magazine the other day it was talking about bathroom sinks and they said ”The sink, designed to be undermounted, was overmounted to expose its similarly unfinished edge”. Holy shit! That might be the most erotic thing I have ever read. Enough to make me lean against the cash register at work on my tip-toes and rub a lil. It’s hard to even get wet at work! Maybe I will transfer departments.

HOW CAN I PRACTICE SAFE SEX??

No sex is safe sex!

HOW DID FOUCAULT HAVE SEX?

It’s Sunday at 7:54 in the morning and I’m trying to think about sex. I’m trying to think about sex the whole day. There was a Super Moon last night that coincided with the beginning of my period, which made me feel lucky, like I really am connected. As I slept I let myself bleed on my legs, the blanket, the mattress. I got up to pee and I was covered in blood- my hands, my thighs, my butt. It feels good to just bleed as I imagine it could feel in Womanity past in the Red Tent. I want another red tent- I want women to unite over something. I want to be bloody and naked with others and finally have enough time to address issues like Capitalism/ Homebirth/ Drones. When I get out of bed everything smells like blood. It was 89 degrees last night- everything is blood and heat. I will not use the word ”Primal”. When I have sex I want to do it with my eyes open.

HOW CAN I HAVE SEX?

Many people have questions about how to have sex, but it isn’t always easy to get good advice! Here is some good advice! Oral sex: This includes fellatio(!) where the penis is stimulated by the partner’s mouth, and cunnilingus(!), where the vagina receives oral stimulation! Masturbation means touching yourself in order to feel sexual pleasure! Since you’re doing it by yourself, there’s no risk of pregnancy or STD – making masturbation the safest form of sex there is! Sex is really not that hard to do! I heard from a college professor that it might be easier the dumber you are! Could that be true? I don’t think it is true. I have a lot of smart friends and they all seem pretty good at sex. I have friends who are PHD students, MFA students, Bachelor of Arts students, and even some friends with office jobs! All of them I think qualify as smart. Not all of them have sex. Some of them have sex with women, some of them have sex with men, some of them have sex with machines. The smartest ones are the ones who have sex with machines. Having sex with the machine is the best thing anyone could do! You wont have the risk of STDs and you can REALLY focus on yourself. You don’t even have to clean your machine unless you really want to. Some people, when having sex with a machine, look at photos on Facebook of their friends in bikinis at the beach. I choose to focus on myself instead! I am so beautiful! My body is so soft- who do I keep it soft for? Myself! My bush is so big-always growing! Sometimes I focus on my hip bone. For my size I have surprisingly wide hips- so wide but still containing a small hole (& not a butt hole!!!). Does anyone remember the culture wars? Why aren’t people still afraid of Catholics? I have a lot of smart friends but none of them are afraid of Catholics! We even went to mass on Christmas Eve just for fun and didn’t feel anything strong.

FOUCAULT & SEX

Alive or dead. I am Googling Foucault and someone on their website just called the theories of Foucault ”fruity”. FOUCAULT WENT TO SUICIDE PARTIES FOUCAULT WENT TO ORGIES I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF A SUICIDE PARTY WHAT can I expect to find at my first suicide party how can I get invited to my first suicide party? Will it be like my first sex party? Will people desire to discuss Foucault? Will this ever reach more than ten pages? Ten pages tomorrow when I wake up? Ten pages Friday? Ten pages by Friday says the editor who is me on Mondays. Only have I ever Only have I ever been a virgin once.

THE MORNING AFTER

At Walgreens Pharmacy on Penn Circle in East Liberty, Pittsburgh, generic Plan B costs $44.99.

At the Rite-Aid on Forbes Avenue in Oakland, Pittsburgh generic Plan B costs $39.99.

SEX MACHINES

Strong feelings are the best feelings to have in the morning. Strong feelings are the best feelings to have at night. Strong feelings when I sit beside you, in front of you or on top of you. Strong feelings age twenty in women’s studies class reading ”How to fuck a fat woman”. Strong feelings when meeting your son. Strong feelings while walking down Highland Avenue on the summer solstice, which is the hottest day of the year so far. I have strong feelings when I wake up strong feelings in the afternoon. I thought I just saw John Goodman’s dick on the television and I couldn’t remember if John Goodman was alive or dead. Sometimes I have strong feelings but most of the time you look hotter on Twitter.

WHAT I WANT

Time and time again I think ”What do I want?” I really have no answer! I can tell you what I don’t want! I don’t want at the poetry reading all the men to talk about their dicks and the women to say they ”finally reached climax like a flower opening in the spring” or ”I found myself slowly awakening- the feeling of you brought tears to my eyes”.

WOMEN & WOMEN IN POETRY: Let’s fuck let’s fuck let’s penetrate let’s do it gently if we want or fuck with hate. Let’s question why Justin Timberlake won the BET award but care more about why Miley Cyrus can do that but not do that. Let’s question why we must be grouped together constantly as ”women”. Let’s fuck everyone because it actually doesn’t matter. In one month I fucked everyone who lived in four rooms in one house and we are all still friends. WOMEN POETS: WE ARE NOT THE MORE SENSITIVE GENDER WE ARE NOT automatically connected to those we fuck. We can have bad sex and good sex. We can wear short skirts without having to explain slut-positive behavior. We can refuse to use metaphor because metaphor is the tool of the hegemonic white male poet. FUCK Longfellow, FUCK Wordsworth, FUCK Keats. We do not need to search for beauty because we are not beautiful. Beauty is nothing but a tool of the patriarch capitalist to achieve stasis and disconnect from those who threaten its’ power.

Metaphor is just a tool to make The Reader believe in correct answers. Historically, metaphors imply a correct referent. As Women, from birth, we are gendered as multiplicities: slut/ virgin, straight/ queer, mother/ maid, natural/ controlled. These dualities become identities constantly obfuscated through the male gaze. Why continue allowing the male gaze/ metaphor define identity. End metaphors, create personal identities. The Reader will only understand their perspective, why bother continuing the bewilderment through metaphor. Tonight I am going to fuck her in a specific order. I am going to kiss her. I will ask her before I kiss her. I will take off her shirt. I will ask her before I take her shirt off. She will take my shirt off. She will ask first. She will touch me. We will use protection. She will hit me after I ask her too. When we are done we will talk about what went right and what went wrong. We will shake hands. I will leave that night or in the morning. I will not write about it. I will not use a metaphor- I will say we fucked. I will not say the word ”Dick”- even as a grotesque expression of female sexuality.

I will say cunt. I will not say I got ”wet” because it is not wetness exactly. It is plasma seepage from the vaginal walls. It is more basic and less acidic than semen. It contains water, pyridine, squalene, urea, acetic acid, lactic acid, complex alcohols and glycols, ketones and aldehydes. It varies in taste texture, acidity, and odor depending on menstrual cycle, arousal, diet, and drugs. There are no metaphors for women’s sexuality. White Canadian Robin Thicke says ”I love black music” on the 2013 BET Awards. There are no metaphors for this. Women: others are constantly defining us through slippages, through metaphors. I am taking control of self-identity, which is the only thing I control. My sexuality is fluid. My fluid is sexual. I teared up today I will tear up tomorrow. We cannot deny Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus. We cannot explain the difference but we can allow for individual perspective locating personage to fame. As a poet, I am welcoming you into my identity. I am not hiding self from you I am asking you to play the most important role—The Reader.

At the last poetry reading 3/6 performers were men. At the last poetry reading 3/6 performers were women. Out of the 3 woman-identified performers none of them spoke about their dicks or vaginas in clear terms. Why must this continue? Why must female sexuality be a confused metaphor? Why must female sexuality continue to be identified as complex/ layered? Metaphors only encourage this attitude! End the patriarch! End the metaphor!

Originally published by Queen Mob's Teahouse.

Purchase

Creditor/Debtor Relation

July 22, 2015 in Essay

By Laura Warman

They ask me if I owe them anything and I calculate all our interactions and the times they have hurt me against the times I have hurt them and determine we are even.

the girls body is the public body the girl is the purchaser as a girl I

The main problem now with society is we aren’t able to think as a collective. We continually convince ourselves and each other that we are individuals and we are making these choices as individuals.

daddy gave me my credit score

I am walking down the street in San Fransisco and four children on the sidewalk are picking up pieces of broken glass and throwing them at each other

If we could see ourselves as a collective we could begin to form a future where we weren’t Freelancers or Adjuncts and we would All Make More Money.

he touched me and I let him because I knew my body wasn't my body And would never be my body the girl

Tonight I will watch a film Tonight I will go to the grocery store

There is a grocery store called whole foods

There is a grocery store called trader joes

There is a grocery store called stop and shop

And I go there and I buy that and I like it

the girls body is the plastic body

you believe in me because of my credit score

we applaud Corporation for risk taking we Return their assets when they disappear

We reward productivity

I’m working on Myself

I am doing Work I am taking some time for Me

I am nothing and i am working towards nothing

time becomes something that we choose

that we can give away that can become owned

He said he flirts with everyone, even dogs, so I shouldn’t take it personally that he flirted with me and didn’t want me.

The STI is almost gone, the baby is gone.

The creditor/ debtor relation is one based on time.

I will go to the gym.

I will run on the elliptical for 30 minutes

I will do the abductor for ten minutes

I will do the bike for 20 minutes

You believe in my credit score
You believe in me

I am always either on a date or getting ready for a date. As if I could ever be Off The Market.

my boyfriend and i exchanged social security numbers

his was not like mine at all he wanted me to have it so i could remember it

I was used to having a boyfriend steal my identity until they actually stole my identity the passionate nature of money makes boyfriend take out accounts in my name makes him acquire debt for me makes him smile makes new girlfriend receive presents from me credit is about desire, power is about fortitude if he has faith in me he will act towards me

and i know something about faith

It’s Easter and I walk to another date. We meet at the coffee shop. I walk past the church and the doors open. People in pastel pour out. I hear a noise so foreign; a cry. I look through the crowd and see a baby lamb on a leash.

Christianity gave us the infinite

Jesus gave us the idea of a repayment plan

Jesus sacrificed himself for our debt

The Original Scale is The Body

We place the poison everywhere and the ants quickly find it and drink and drink

I am at the lecture and everyone is asking questions that aren’t questions. I raise my hand and say “What does the future look like for people without the Internet?” and the lecturer says “Very bleak, more poverty is guaranteed. More dichotomy. More suffering.”

The metaphoric violence was at first easy to ignore

Everyone gets followed down the street

in the dark

at night

after the bar

everyone gets told to smile and smiles

Commodification requires a clear sign in the signifier/ signified relationship

Okay, this is a poem about My Body

This is a poem about my interactions with capital

This is a poem about The Boyfriend

I will make this concrete so we can consume it

sell it

till it leaves

till it becomes Absence

Again

This is not art this is money sorry

Representation is Ownership He touches my shoulder and I let him because he has more power than me.

And you do it again. And you do it again. And I let you do it again.

Originally published at Ruth Stone Foundation.

Purchase

Three Hydras

July 20, 2015

By P. E. Garcia

Hydra at the Dentist

For each tooth pulled, two teeth emerge. Other dentists are brought in to pull the rapidly replenishing teeth; soon there are hundreds, then thousands, then millions of teeth, and an equal number of dentists, elbows in each other’s faces, toiling over bloody gums. More people are required: assistants, receptionists, insurance agents, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, paramours, priests, presidents, people to sweep the bone and to mop the blood, until the whole world thinks of nothing but the hydra and its teeth and the satisfying ache of release.

Hydra for President!

The heads try to shout over one another: American Dream! American People! America! The nation is offered up like a child, and each head places a firm kiss on the population’s cheek. A thousand suits, a thousand ties, a thousand heads with a thousand teeth smiling a thousand smiles as a thousand necks crane over the country, casting a shadow under which we can all lie, huddled together, gnawing each others’ fingers to bloody stumps.

Hydra in the Big City

Heads as big as five boroughs and a tangle of necks with names like Brooklyn, Verrazano, Williamsburg. Faces lined with grids, pockmarked with landmarks, sweating people into the Hudson, into the Gowanus, into the gutters. A heart like Grand Central, a stomach like Times Square, and twin cocks like two towers scraping the sky, one named Freedom; the other: Empire.

These were originally published by tNY Press.

Who Is Alan Disaster?

July 14, 2015

By P.E. Garcia

Alan Disaster is the excitement and boredom and embarrassment of youth. He’s you when you cry at a movie and shovel Sour Patch Kids into your mouth, a thin line of sugary drool dangling from your lip.

Alan Disaster is the thin layer of sweat on your skin and the taste of latex as your dentist pries into your mouth to scratch at your teeth. He’s a waning migraine, once an ocean wave, massive and looming, now the sea at the shore, shallow and barely able to reach the tip of your toes.

He’s your undeserved sense of pride, the sharp taste of ash the first time you smoke a cigarette, the misery of poverty, the misery of want, the misery of need; you see him, but there’s nothing you can do.

Alan Disaster is the nausea of depression, the grit of cheese cracker crumbs in the crevice of your couch, the noise of a television when you sit at home and try not to be lonely, the sensation of insects crawling on you, burrowing under your skin and walking along your nerves. He was me when I took a whole thing of Dramamine, a girl I knew in high school talked at me with three heads, a stop sign said my name and I threw up in the gutter.

Alan Disaster is the stench of sweat and cum you’ve grown to love as it lies beside you in bed. He’s a serious opinion you hold about who should win The Voice.

Alan Disaster is the fragmented sidewalk, the state of your soul, a bulb burnt out in heaven, the blood between your teeth. He’s a man with bones, with muscle, and an eyeball that gazes into the mirror of humanity, and looking, sees what?

Originally published by Queen Mob’s Teahouse.

Weary: A Short Story

July 10, 2015 in Fiction

By P. E. Garcia

She wakes, and there is the dark, the muted smell of soap, and the sound of the stray dogs rummaging through garbage in the streets. Today she will drown herself.

She lights the oil lantern, and in its glow, dresses; her joints ache with every bend and extension. While blowing out the lantern, she tucks the flowers underneath her arm.

Her room is a small shack standing atop the roof of the Hostel Leguia, and as she locks the door, the cool wind whips around her. She feels a drop of water. Maybe rain, she thinks, but doubts it; it has not rained in Chiclayo for a long time.

Briefly, she looks at the sky to admire the stars and the moon, and then she heads down the stairs. At the last stair, she stops and waits. The light is on in the hallway of the second floor. She peers around the edge of the wall that divides the stairwell from the hallway and sees the manager of the hostel, Luis, slumped in his chair at the check-out. He snores loudly, and she fears that she might wake him. He would be angry at her for leaving when she must work soon, and he would be even angrier if she disturbed him.

She does not wake him, though, as she heads down the steps to the outside, and she is relieved. The unpaved road is firm under her feet, and there is little light in the alleyway. It is dangerous for her to be here, in the dark, a woman, alone. She wonders if she will be harmed, but she can see no one in the darkness with her, and the stray dogs barely lift their curious heads.

In these streets, there are always thieves and drunks and rapists, and, in her younger days, there would have been a man to protect her. And after the men stopped showing up, there was her son, and she dragged him through the streets instead, and he would act bitter.

Her son is in America now, and she hurts at the thought of him.

She turns onto Calle Leguia, into the well-lit street.

What is in America that is not in Peru? She cannot imagine. She has seen Americans, their fragile pale bodies hunched under the weight of their enormous backpacks. They leave the hostel and are gone all day. They come back only at night, their pale skin turned a bright red, their soft, smooth hands torn by a day’s work, and their backpacks overflowing with llama wool sweaters, wooden flutes and pictures of the Incan mounds.

She asked an American once why he had come there.

“En-ton-deer tu famil-ah,” he said.

That is how he had said it, “famil-ah”—as though that is what the Incans or the pan flute players or the people in the mercado, hawking their cheap wares, laughing with each other over the piles of American money—as though that’s what those people are to her.

She wonders if her son is that way now, pale and soft.

Dust blows across the street. She covers her face, but it still gets in her eyes. She winces but continues walking, her eyes watery.

She is on Juan Timis Stack, and she only notices because this was once her favorite part of town. The buildings had been bright and colorful, but now are deteriorating, and the dingy white beneath the peeling paint shows through; it makes her think of vanilla. There is a refrigerator on the sidewalk, made up from the parts of other refrigerators, refurbished to be sold in Lima, where the people can afford those kinds of things. She steps around it and wishes that she could have it for herself.

At the corner of Juan Timis and Avenue Pacifico, she sees the small stand of Julio, closed up and layered with the dust that is blowing down the road. As she passes it and turns down Pacifico, she runs her hand along it, the dust rubbing off onto her palm. She remembers kissing Julio, and the acidic taste of ceviche coming off his lips onto hers and burning. She can see him sleeping, wrapped up tight in a blanket, but she cannot see the bed, or the room, or herself, and she wonders who makes him ceviche now.

As she continues down Pacifico, the cemetery comes into sight. She runs her hand along the black metal bars of the fence, the thick rust crumbling off at her touch. At the gates, she stands and admires the metal, tracing her finger down the bars, around the latch, and then back up.

She was sick as a child, and the doctor thought she would die. She only wanted to sleep, to sleep and to be left alone, but her mother had pulled her out of bed and dragged her here, singing softly to her:

Luna, lunera, cascabelera,

Cinco pollitos y una ternera,Sal solecito, caliéntame un poquito,Por hoy y por mañana por toda la semana.

Over and over again, she sang to her. It makes her sick to think of it.

She slowly pulls the gate open. The hinges creak loudly, and she feels embarrassed by the sound, as though she has been caught doing something wrong. Walking down the dirt path through the graveyard, she wonders where it is that her mother dragged her. Who was in that grave?

Each tombstone she sees frightens her. Where had they been? Who was there? The man, painted, holding bones—whose bones? She did not know, and colors, such colors, and fire and heat and warmth and Luna, lunera, cascabelera, but now there was another song and she did not want to hear it and she could not understand it so Sal solecito, caliéntame un poquito, over and over again. But there was dust, and bones, and her mother weeping and calling out that new strange song, and the man forced some kind of meat into her mouth, the taste of blood, and everything was so ugly.

And within a few days, she was well, and her mother thanked God.

She comes to the only place in the graveyard that she knows, the plots reserved for her and her family. Her mother and father are the only two there, and there is the empty space left for her. She pulls at some of the weeds sprouting from their graves, though it feels strange to kill what has grown from her parent’s bodies.

As she places the flowers on her mother’s grave, she imagines what it would be like to fall through the ground and join her.

There are no flowers for her father’s grave. She did not know him, only that he did not want conversation at the dinner table, that he built up the riches that her mother squandered away, and that he loved to chew coca leaves.

Coca leaves gave him energy, her mother told her, so that he could make the trips to Lima. He chewed them, even when he was dying, lying on the sofa and cursing God.

“Nada se queda,” he said. “Nada se queda.”

And that is all she knows of her father.

Nada se queda.

Nothing remains.

She stands and leaves the graveyard, looking down at the path before her, so as not to catch another glimpse of the tombstones. Back on Pacifico, she walks towards Juan Pomis, every step deliberate. She is going to the ocean; she knows it and feels at peace.

The dark is fading into a light purple, and the birds call to each other from the trees and the rooftops. She thinks of the birds, and then of parrots: the parrot that swooped into her window once, confused. It flew about her room, pecking and crying out, smashing itself into her dresser, knocking her jewelry to the floor, slamming into the mirror, and tangling itself in the bed sheets. When it flew out again, she laughed, and she only laughed because she was so scared.

She sees the bird fly out through the window, into the bright blue sky, and the sky becomes the ocean, and she thinks of the ocean again, and how she is going to drown in it. The thought brings heat to her body. Sal solecito, caliéntame un poquito.

She used to go to the beach with Brijida and admire the young fishermen, their chests toned and sweaty, and that used to be good.

She thinks of the fishermen, and Brijida, flirting and smiling at them. She goes with Brijida beneath the dock, goes and lies with Brijida and two fishermen. One is on top of her, and she smiles and she laughs and she is having fun and she is in pain and there is blood and she did not think it would hurt so bad and she wants him to stop and she pushes that sweaty chest, but it is not the same sweat. It is a new sweat. It is a bad sweat, a greasy, filthy sweat, and he makes her sweat the same greasy, filthy sweat and he will not stop. And it hurts, but he does not stop.

And she is crying beneath the dock with Brijida, and they hold each other, and do not talk to the fishermen again. She thinks of the ocean, the ocean and drowning.

The walk is longer than she remembered. Her bones are aching; her muscles are aching. There was not so much pain when she was younger. She should stop and rest, she knows, but she will not stop. Her muscles ache, and her joints burn. She will not stop; she does not stop, not when peace and relief are so near.

She does not think; she leaves her head, her body, and she is somewhere in the sky, sitting with Christ and her father and her mother and the man with the bones and the song. She is with her pale soft son in America, sipping coffee at his kitchen table. She is somewhere else, anywhere else, where her muscles and joints and thoughts do not burn.

The night continues to fade, and the adobe huts that surround the beach come into sight. She slows when she comes near them, and she hears the sound of the people rising for the morning. The scent of garbage and dead fish fills her nostrils, but it seems inviting and familiar. She breathes it in with pleasure.

Among the houses now, the sounds jumble together: a baby cries, a woman calls to her child, a man yawns, a dog growls, and she knows them all, and she listens. A thought comes to her, that there could be peace here, among the poor and the simple, and she could smell these smells and hear these sounds and she would have that peace.

Two children run towards her, shirtless, kicking a balled-up pair of socks back and forth like a soccer ball. She stops walking to admire them. They call to each other with laughing voices and run past her, nearly knocking her down, and she feels a slight breeze from their running. She turns to call to them, though she is not sure what to say, but they are far away now. She stands with her mouth open, looking after them.

Sighing deeply, she tastes the scent of the air. There is no pleasure in it anymore.

She walks past the houses and comes to the long dunes of the beach. They tower above her, and she worries about the pain in her bones and her muscles. She does not want to quit, though. She is going to the ocean, and she is going to drown. She knows it; she wants it.

The dune is steeper than she thought, and she struggles. There is no sure footing; her walk becomes a crawl. At the top of the dune, she rests. She does not want to, but she must.

She looks out over the ocean: what would it be like to die? Would it be peaceful? Her father looked peaceful; her mother looked peaceful. Jesus looked peaceful. She would be peaceful.

She hears the calls of the fishermen, and she remembers them and their sweat and their heat and their grease, and she feels disgust.

She will drown; there will be peace.

Walking down the dune, she steps carefully onto the beach. There are old fish bones and teeth buried in the sand, and she tries to avoid them; they still cut at her feet through her old shoes and calluses.

There was an old bloated seal carcass on the beach once. Had he drowned? He did not look peaceful, and he smelled worse than anything she could remember.

She stretches, and there is salt in the air.

She slept on the beach once as a child when her mother took her. She swam and played so much until she fell asleep in the warm summer sand. Sea air made sleeping sweet.

She would be peaceful.

As she pulls off her clothes, piece by piece, she feels the warmth radiating from the water. Timidly, one foot goes into the ocean, then the other. The sand is soft and squeezes itself between her toes, and it feels good.

It would not be so bad to drown, would it?

There is the seal, bloated and rotten.

And her father and mother in their caskets.

And herself, what would she be?

“Ah, Señor Jesus. ¿Qué se queda, Señor? ¿Qué se queda?”

There is no answer but the beating of the water on the shore.

She curls her toes into the sand.

Nada se queda.

“Nada se queda.”

She walks farther into the water, and the sand becomes rocks lined with algae. Turning, she floats upward onto her back and sinks down. Her nipples and nose poke out from the water, and she feels good. She turns again and swims out farther and sees the long dock on the other end of the beach.

The dawn is breaking. Smoke rises from above the dunes of the beach, and it is all she can see of the city. She swims forwards and backwards, never coming closer to the shore and never any farther.

She is in the water, somewhere amid the white foam of the deep blue waves. She tries to imagine looking down upon herself from the sky; she cannot. A nervous relief overtakes her, and her body trembles in the water. She knows that she must end it.

Downward she goes. The ocean is swallowing her; she is dying. She will be peaceful. She will be the bone, the sacred song, the pale, soft carcass. She will be the seal, the father, the mother, the fishbone and Christ. Nada se queda.

The weight of the water is painful. Out of habit, she holds her breath.

She opens her eyes under the water. The salt stings, and she sees only light and blue and her arms waving, and she is suddenly frightened. She fights. She swims. She fights, and she breaks the surface and gasps for breath.

What has she done?

She treads the water, sore and tired, and looks out over the ocean. The horizon is barren. She must try again, must drown; there must be peace.

Turning again, she floats on her back and looks up at the sky. She must rest, must prepare herself. Next time must be right. The water laps around her, and it is the only sound she hears. She admires the sky, and finally, she is ready.

She straightens up, ready to dive down again, when she hears the voice of a man call to her. It is a fisherman in the distance. She tries to wave to him, to show him that she is okay, that she has not drowned, but he is not calling to her. He is calling to his shipmates. He is pointing at her. He is laughing.

They are laughing. They are calling to her and grabbing their crotches.

Hot with embarrassment, she feels their greasy sweat and their chests, their eyes following, burning her as she turns and swims back to shore. The sand is hotter than she remembers, and as she dresses, her clothes cling to her wet body.

She rests on the shore, warming herself in the sun, watching the sweaty, greasy fishermen as they return to their work. Is there no peace, no dignity to be had, even in dying? These men, these beasts with broad chests, greasy sweat, dark eyes, dark curls, callused skin; they drive her to death, and degrade her still. Nada se queda.

She does not know what to do; she can only stand and turn to walk back through the hot sand, the bones, the dunes, the garbage and filth and dust, back into the city where she lives.

Originally appeared on The Toast.

US v. Approximately 64, 695 Pounds of Shark Fins

July 07, 2015

By P.E. Garcia

1    IN THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE NINTH
2    CIRCUIT
3 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -x
4    UNITED STATES,                           :
5         Petitioner                     : No.13-604
6         v.                                    :
7    APPROXIMATELY 64,695 POUNDS OF SHARK FINS :
8 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -x
9    San Francisco, CA
10 Monday, March 3, 2008
11
12 The above-entitled matter came on for oral argument
13 before the United States Court of Appeals for the
14 Ninth Circuit at 10:03 a.m.
15
16 APPEARANCES:
17 POSEIDON, ESQ., Mount Olympus, on behalf of
18 Petitioner
19
20 ICARUS, ESQ., Crete, on behalf of Respondent
21
22 THE TIDE, ESQ., (??), in support of Respondent
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

1    JUDGE KOZINSKI: Our first case this morning is the
2    United States v. Approximately 64,695 Pounds of Shark
3    Fins. Mr. Poseidon, if you’ll begin?
4
5    ORAL ARGUMENT OF POSEIDON, ESQ.
6    POSEIDON:
7    Your Honor, and may it please the court. You would all
8    be dead without me. The fins that slice the ocean
9    surface are only a boil on the skin, a symptom of the
10 disease. The sharks lurking beneath are waiting for
11 their moment to rise. Who do you think it is that
12 keeps them in their place? What force is it that keeps
13 them from flooding your land? What stops you from
14 being up to your knees in teeth?
15
16 None but my hand.
17
18 I was the bombs in Birmingham, the lynch ropes in
19 Elaine, the knife blade of Memphis. I was the rag
20 stuffed in your mouth. I keep order. I know these
21 things aren’t pretty, but such ugliness is the cost of
22 beauty.
23
24 And what is more beautiful than our land?
25
26
27
28
29
30

1    ORAL ARGUMENT OF ICARUS, ESQ.
2    ICARUS:
3    Your Honor, and may it please the court. I’m drowning.
4    Each time I open my mouth to speak, only more water
5    rushes in. Forgive me if I vomit starfish and sunken
6    treasure.
7
8    I just--
9
10 I don’t understand.
11
12 People say I flew too close to the sun, but no-one
13 blamed the sun for being too hot or the ocean for
14 being too wet. Why then do I get admonished for being
15 my natural self?
16
17 If you were trapped with nothing to do but stare out
18 a window, and then suddenly you have wings--
19
20 --WINGS--
21
22 Wouldn’t you fly as high as you possibly could? Why
23 is that a sin?
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

1    ORAL ARGUMENT OF THE TIDE, ESQ.
2          THE TIDE:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14              [A STEADY CRASH OF WAVES]
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

1    REBUTTAL ARGUMENT OF POSEIDON, ESQ.
2          POSEIDON:
3    Fuck the court. Fuck Icarus. Fuck the tide. Fuck
4    Arkansas. Fuck Alabama. Fuck everyone everywhere at
5    any given moment.
6
7    Fill the ocean with blood. Swim in the carnage. Hold
8    your head above the bodies of your brothers and
9    sisters. Let them drown. You can all drown.
10
11 You can all fuck off.
12
13 JUDGE KOZINSKI: Thank you, counsel. The case is
14 submitted.
15
16 Whereupon, at 11:02 a.m., the case in the above-
17 entitled matter was submitted for consideration.
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30

Originally published at theEEEL.

One of My Mom’s Arms

July 01, 2015

By Chelsea Martin

It must be so disgusting to watch something that was once part of your self slowly turn into something so separate and opinionated.

Like watching your left arm detach from your body and go to college in Santa Cruz to study gender politics and practice polyamory, things you never planned for your arm, things that are so out of your range of understanding you hadn’t even thought to warn the arm against it.

I can imagine looking at photographs of the arm when it was younger and feeling panicky about the swiftness with which life passes a person.

“How do you have a conversation about gender politics with an arm that thinks for itself?” I can imagine wondering, while mentally suppressing the much more important question, “What is gender politics?”

I can understand feeling helpless and angry that the arm didn’t acquire the values you thought were embedded into your flesh.

I can imagine wanting to disown the arm, over-confident and argumentative about its decisions, constantly making you feel old and foolish when you ask simple questions about its lifestyle.

I can imagine wanting to focus once again on yourself, on the other arm and the few other appendages that haven’t detached from you, that seem to still find you interesting and knowledgeable and worth being connected to.

I can imagine making an effort to forget about the arm.

When I showed up at my mom’s house, I was ready to apologize for being such an arm.

We hadn’t talked in months for what seemed like no reason.

I was in high spirits because I had just been fired from my job and had forced myself to feel good about it.

A tiny Asian man opened her door and I said, “Mom,” at him, which seemed both inappropriate and also the only way to begin the conversation. He called a tiny Asian woman over, who was able to say in English that she didn’t speak English.

I called my mom from the car and heard the familiar, “Hi, this is Diane, leave a message,” that I had heard hundreds of times before.

My message went, “Dearest Mother, I am merely inquiring as to your whereabouts, haven’t seen you, where are you? Also who is in your house? Call me back at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

I texted her every few days after that, with no response.

A few weeks later, I texted her from someone else’s phone and said, “Diane. How are you?”

She immediately texted, “Who is this?”

I texted my name. Forty-five minutes later she texted, “Good. And you?”

“Fine,” I texted, “What are your plans for Christmas?”

I am still waiting for a response one year later.

Originally published at Shabby Doll House.

Purchase

Grace is NOT an Artist

June 26, 2015

Originally published at Shabby Doll House.

McDonalds Is Impossible

June 23, 2015

By Chelsea Martin

Eating food from McDonald's is mathematically impossible.
Because before you can eat it, you have to order it.
And before you can order it, you have to decide what you want.
And before you can decide what you want, you have to read the menu.
And before you can read the menu, you have to be in front of the menu.
And before you can be in front of the menu, you have to wait in line.
And before you can wait in line, you have to drive to the restaurant.
And before you can drive to the restaurant, you have to get in your car.
And before you can get in your car, you have to put clothes on.
And before you can put clothes on, you have to get out of bed.
And before you can get out of bed, you have to stop being so depressed.
And before you can stop being so depressed, you have to understand what depression is.
And before you can understand what depression is, you have to think clearly.
And before you can think clearly, you have to turn off the TV.
And before you can turn off the TV, you have to free your hands.
And before you can free your hands, you have to stop masturbating.
And before you can stop masturbating, you have to get off.
And before you can get off, you have to imagine someone you really like with his pants off, encouraging you to explore his enlarged genitalia.
And before you can imagine someone you really like with his pants off encouraging you to explore his enlarged genitalia, you have to imagine that person stroking your neck.
And before you can imagine that person stroking your neck, you have to imagine that person walking up to you looking determined.
And before you can imagine that person walking up to you looking determined, you have to choose who that person is.
And before you can choose who that person is, you have to like someone.
And before you can like someone, you have to interact with someone.
And before you can interact with someone, you have to introduce yourself.
And before you can introduce yourself, you have to be in a social situation.
And before you can be in a social situation, you have to be invited to something somehow.
And before you can be invited to something somehow, you have to receive a telephone call from a friend.
And before you can receive a telephone call from a friend, you have to make a reputation for yourself as being sort of fun.
And before you can make a reputation for yourself as being sort of fun, you have to be noticeably fun on several different occasions.
And before you can be noticeably fun on several different occasions, you have to be fun once in the presence of two or more people.
And before you can be fun once in the presence of two or more people, you have to be drunk.
And before you can be drunk, you have to buy alcohol.
And before you can buy alcohol, you have to want your psychological state to be altered.
And before you can want your psychological state to be altered, you have to recognize that your current psychological state is unsatisfactory.
And before you can recognize that your current psychological state is unsatisfactory, you have to grow tired of your lifestyle.
And before you can grow tired of your lifestyle, you have to repeat the same patterns over and over endlessly.
And before you can repeat the same patterns over and over endlessly, you have to lose a lot of your creativity.
And before you can lose a lot of your creativity, you have to stop reading books.
And before you can stop reading books, you have to think that you would benefit from reading less frequently.
And before you can think that you would benefit from reading less frequently, you have to be discouraged by the written word.
And before you can be discouraged by the written word, you have to read something that reinforces your insecurities.
And before you can read something that reinforces your insecurities, you have to have insecurities.
And before you can have insecurities, you have to be awake for part of the day.
And before you can be awake for part of the day, you have to feel motivation to wake up.
And before you can feel motivation to wake up, you have to dream of perfectly synchronized conversations with people you desire to talk to.
And before you can dream of perfectly synchronized conversations with people you desire to talk to, you have to have a general idea of what a perfectly synchronized conversation is.
And before you can have a general idea of what a perfectly synchronized conversation is, you have to watch a lot of movies in which people successfully talk to each other.
And before you can watch a lot of movies in which people successfully talk to each other, you have to have an interest in other people.
And before you can have an interest in other people, you have to have some way of benefiting from other people.
And before you can have some way of benefiting from other people, you have to have goals.
And before you can have goals, you have to want power.
And before you can want power, you have to feel greed.
And before you can feel greed, you have to feel more deserving than others.
And before you can feel more deserving than others, you have to feel a general disgust with the human population.
And before you can feel a general disgust with the human population, you have to be emotionally wounded.
And before you can be emotionally wounded, you have to be treated badly by someone you think you care about while in a naive, vulnerable state.
And before you can be treated badly by someone you think you care about while in a naive, vulnerable state, you have to feel inferior to that person.
And before you can feel inferior to that person, you have to watch him laughing and walking towards his drum kit with his shirt off and the sun all over him.
And before you can watch him laughing and walking towards his drum kit with his shirt off and the sun all over him, you have to go to one of his outdoor shows.
And before you can go to one of his outdoor shows, you have to pretend to know something about music.
And before you can pretend to know something about music, you have to feel embarrassed about your real interests.
And before you can feel embarrassed about your real interests, you have to realize that your interests are different from other people's interests.
And before you can realize that your interests are different from other people’s interests, you have to be regularly misunderstood.
And before you can be regularly misunderstood, you have to be almost completely socially debilitated.
And before you can be almost completely socially debilitated, you have to be an outcast.
And before you can be an outcast, you have to be rejected by your entire group of friends.
And before you can be rejected by your entire group of friends, you have to be suffocatingly loyal to your friends.
And before you can be suffocatingly loyal to your friends, you have to be afraid of loss.
And before you can be afraid of loss, you have to lose something of value.
And before you can lose something of value, you have to realize that that thing will never change.
And before you can realize that that thing will never change, you have to have the same conversation with your grandmother forty or fifty times.
And before you can have the same conversation with your grandmother forty or fifty times, you have to have a desire to talk to her and form a meaningful relationship.
And before you can have a desire to talk to her and form a meaningful relationship, you have to love her.
And before you can love her, you have to notice the great tolerance she has for you.
And before you can notice the great tolerance she has for you, you have to break one of her favorite china teacups that her mother gave her and forget to apologize.
And before you can break one of her favorite china teacups that her mother gave her and forget to apologize, you have to insist on using the teacups for your imaginary tea party. And before you can insist on using the teacups for your imaginary tea party, you have to cultivate your imagination.
And before you can cultivate your imagination, you have to spend a lot of time alone.
And before you can spend a lot of time alone, you have to find ways to sneak away from your siblings.
And before you can find ways to sneak away from your siblings, you have to have siblings.
And before you can have siblings, you have to underwhelm your parents.
And before you can underwhelm your parents, you have to be quiet, polite and unnoticeable.
And before you can be quiet, polite and unnoticeable, you have to understand that it is possible to disappoint your parents.
And before you can understand that it is possible to disappoint your parents, you have to be harshly reprimanded.
And before you can be harshly reprimanded, you have to sing loudly at an inappropriate moment.
And before you can sing loudly at an inappropriate moment, you have to be happy.
And before you can be happy, you have to be able to recognize happiness.
And before you can be able to recognize happiness, you have to know distress.
And before you can know distress, you have to be watched by an insufficient babysitter for one week.
And before you can be watched by an insufficient babysitter for one week, you have to vomit on the other, more pleasant babysitter.
And before you can vomit on the other, more pleasant babysitter, you have to be sick.
And before you can be sick, you have to eat something you’re allergic to.
And before you can eat something you’re allergic to, you have to have allergies.
And before you can have allergies, you have to be born.
And before you can be born, you have to be conceived.
And before you can be conceived, your parents have to copulate.
And before your parents can copulate, they have to be attracted to one another.
And before they can be attracted to one another, they have to have common interests.
And before they can have common interests, they have to talk to each other.
And before they can talk to each other, they have to meet.
And before they can meet, they have to have in-school suspension on the same day.
And before they can have in-school suspension on the same day, they have to get caught sneaking off campus separately.
And before they can get caught sneaking off campus separately, they have to think of somewhere to go.
And before they can think of somewhere to go, they have to be familiar with McDonald's.
And before they can be familiar with McDonald's, they have to eat food from McDonald's.
And eating food from McDonald's is mathematically impossible.

From No Posit, Volume 1 and republished at Poetry Foundation.

Purchase

Feeds

June 19, 2015

By Nalini Edwin

We were feeling awkward at an awkward party. We had all been standing around the table before we began sitting down at it while we stayed standing. There was bread to worry at, dip into brightly flavored oil. In fact, there were many kinds of flavored oil: chile, garlic, rosemary, chile-garlic, lemon, lemon-pepper. Wow, check this out, we said. Yeah, we said. Yeah. We took photographs of the oil and bread with our devices. We saw photographs of the same food, shot from different angles, appearing on those devices, one after the other, like a zoetrope dismembered, its length of images unfurled vertically and captioned. Bread, read the captions, and Oil, and bread & oils, and Yes, and #BOOM. If we skimmed through the photographs quickly, the bread and oils appeared to move upward in space as the photographs moved forward in time, jumping from one position to the other in their small ramekins on the table, growing blurry in one shot, sharply focused in another, obeying and disobeying the rule of thirds. Tilt-shift, cyanotype, cross-process. Magic hour, fisheye, sunkissed. Lomo. If we scanned downward we could see photographs of ourselves, or the view from our apartments and rooftops, or, perhaps most pleasurably, our breakfasts: a latte with its perfect foam heart, a newspaper folded like the chive omelette nearby, a man’s expensive chambray cuff holding a man’s hand holding a fork. We examined these (whose sleeve, what omelette, which newspaper) and thought about them (why him, where chive, how latte heart) as we ate, and did not eat, and started to eat, and stopped eating, the bread and oil before us. Soon the tablecloth was covered with stains, darkest at their middles like eclipses. Crumbs collected here and there quietly. We pulled out devices, just to have something to do with our hands. We learned together. With each passing minute, new things poured into streams and feeds. New things were both river and fish. They were grain in a trough, the trough itself made of deadened petrified grain. New things had happened all the time, and were to have been learned. We read well and closely, were always reading, really, growing well-versed in versions of ourselves. Timestamps reminded us to think of time, but unlike food, time has a heart of mercury and would scatter outward as a billion little globes if a hand tried to capture it. We made versions of our food in time, to remember the time we ate as if in the afterlife.

Originally appeared on Fringe as their inaugural Flash Fiction Contest winner.

Purchase