“That’s what it does,” Maddie said, as they snaked their way through the crowd of cotton candy and sawdust. “Capitalism ruins everything. Who says the circus needed audience participation? They’ve been doing fine for centuries without VIP wristbands.”
Stella looked at her in that wry, amused way adults do, the expression that acknowledged a level of precocity while insisting on superiority over it.
“Well, we can always trade in our VIP wristbands for the regular ones.”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” Maddie said. She hated when people brought banal realities into an ideological rant. “It’s just that social media has fried our brains so much that we can’t stand to sit back and observe without demanding some level of participation. It’s sick. It’s covert narcissism.”… ...continue reading
Eto stirs his coffee slowly and with his left hand. Eto is what he goes by now—the remnant of a grander name that has been whittled down against the contours of many grating decades. Like sawdust, the powdery traces of the past settle in a fine layer over the polish of his navy blue suit.
Here you are, dwarfed by the enormity of this man. He is slight but tall, narrow-faced with full features, looking ever-so graceful as the sun dips behind his shoulder and embalms the sheen of his midnight-blue skin in gold. You shift in your chair and squint, still clutching the cassette tape recorder you’ve set on the center of the table. Eto has to lean in to make himself heard above the din and clink of the diners around you.… ...continue reading
Is gone.
She was probably on her way out, even, the many times you chose to ignore the raging fire behind her thinly-veiled mist. Who could’ve thought?
Who could’ve thought that of what you thought was likely a storm that would pass with the night, clear up by the crack of the dawn, would leave no trace of her by morning?
‘Let bygones be bygones,’ some say. But hard though it is to not reminisce about your times together; hard – to just give in to it like that. You sift through the memories and latch on to the bad ones; admittedly, there weren’t many of the other kind.
‘Aargh!’ you scream in frustration, ‘God!’… ...continue reading
Slowly like a disease it happened.
The escalator went first,
out of service the sign read.
Everything you need
Bedding, floor two.
Cosmetics, ground floor.
Appliances, third floor.
Sanitary white tile floors
with a permanent layer of dirt,
sticky at my feet.
Mannequins I bump into,
apologizing to the person
I thought they would be.… ...continue reading
It was all we could do to keep the ice cream from melting down the sides of the cones, sticking to our fingers and clothes.
It was all we could do to hang on. To anything. Resembling real life.
It was all we could do to avoid being trampled as elephants hurtled down the street followed by the keepers and the smaller beasts.
It was all we could do to save one. The others would eventually perish.
It was all we could do to find shelter in the darkest spaces when the storm clouds gathered and the bombs started to fall.
It was all we could do to fill the darkest spaces with something we thought would be important for posterity.
It was all we could to when the water parted, allowing us to pass.… ...continue reading
Isa stares at the cracked, concrete border wall separating District 87 from District 92. She hides from the drones overhead under pine trees that stand thirty feet away from the dividing line. The armed patrolling guards drove past her twenty minutes ago and will not return for another twenty. She had timed their policings many times. There are no biometric scanners nearby as this opening is half a mile from any checkpoint. Isa removes her first-time voter District 87 armband and replaces it with her deceased mother’s frayed District 92 band.
Isa scans the dirt road that separates the tree line and the border wall. She counts, “ten, nine, eight,” then sprints for the cranny just big enough for her to shimmy through. “Move, move, move,” she says to herself.… ...continue reading
Let’s all live in Bruno’s world
the Land of Mars
where uniformed bullies don’t terrorize immigrants
on behalf of cowardly charlatans
and yogic concentration on silk clothing and gold jewelry
makes all the ugliness disappear
like a magnum of strawberry champagne on ice
disbursed among a proper gang of Hooligans
who beat only on deeply groovy drums
detaining innocents with arresting dance moves
and the promise of all-night love
Maybe if we sing with all our soul
dance as though we’re sexier than our fears
place freaky funky fabulousness
above narrow definitions of belonging
we can make the thugs go back to their children
no longer ashamed at cruel moms and dads
pretending to be heroes
while destroying carefully constructed lives
built on American dreams
lacking proper papers
– MK PUNKY
… ...continue reading