the professor sits his broad bottom
on a poor, delicate text
that snuffs away under the odorous
remarks of his fat strokes of genius
—-
become as sharp as a single point, piercing through the economy with such exuberant specialization, as to make pin after pin until every invisible hand is applauding. dear adam, what world did you be-smith when you allocated all the fruit to the woman?
the bells chime, the school day starts, and the current of bodies push from room to room all packages of skills and capital, in neat rows, eyes lower to the books, heads bow and lips chant. a child stands up and immediately crumbles to salt. red-faced and dishonorable.
the bells chime, the school time is over, stand in neat black lines, shadows of shadows, to receive your shadow book. today we are released upon the world. once a haunting of europe, now shiny in robes, expensive with proud crying faces.
a bell will chime in my woman’s body and i am to resign this labor line to make room for another. but my ears ring as i exit the mosh pit, this metal industry i prefer, and spin/smash into conundrums of illusory choice: one life over another, thinking over feeling, analysis over experience, the specific over the general, the general over the vanquished. i do.
i will not be a loser in this game, i murmur to myself, as i put on my bra in the sweaty locker room.
—-
like a thick, knotted noodle
I tore my clothes to rip my roots
and found it too greasy to break
into open mouths, laughing
tongues that push through brains
and stray chemicals flittering like snowflakes
all winter, full of unique and slush
square gentlemen with metal cases for wallets
clink around the place, shiny-eyed
and greedy me, all high on my chopsticks
pick the sushi off the rice
to lay in black black sauce
—
there is in living quickly
a quick rotting of memories
wasted fragments lose their links
and solidity erodes, erodes
—-
wisdom is the pearl of someone else’s suffering. the wise are cowards. the fools are rich with life. those who live richly tell wise tales at the end to young travellers who can also choose wisdom or folly. but those who live wisely from the beginning are not so fooled in the end, about wisdom.
—
How two healthy, wealthy kids could squirm in that smelly bed, I don’t know. All’s I know is the girl had a vaginal infection you can tell from across the street, and the boy didn’t seem to mind none.
There was a whole house full of strange children like those, and they all made a lot of noise. Some days, I’d wake up at four in the morning because I’d hear some racket in the back yard. I’d open my window and a whole tribe of them’d be popping out my garbage can. But why, I don’t know. My granddaughter is five yeras old and she’s curious; wants to find out about that wrinkly lady in the big skirt is doing with all those dusty bags! But me? I don’t ask no more.
One time, in the middle of the night, three ambulance cars came by and dragged ten white bodies clean out of the garage. That was the first time I took a peak at the inside of that house: it was a bitter jungle in there! Nothing but.
Half-an-hour later, a fancy Manhattan car pulled up the driveway and a skinny lady all in furs came rushing at that house, yelling so the whole block could hear:
“Where’s Perry? Where’s my Perry?”
A little Asiatic girl with blue hair poked her head out from the second floor window:
“Oh shit! Are you Mrs. Medici? Wait, wait, wait a second.”
With a quick hop, the girl disappeared and soon after, the front door flung open. A small, sticky hand grabbed at Mrs. Medici’s leopard print.
“Um…P-man is in the hospital,” it said.
“Yes, I know, my husband told me. But that old bastard won’t tell me which hospital!”
“Woodhull Hospital. On Flushing Avenue. It’s that way,” she pointed to the left, and then pointed to the right. “I mean that way.”
” Oh, sweetie, won’t you just come with me please?” Mrs. Medici sang sweetly, “I really don’t know Brooklyn. Thank you, dear.”
“Um…I can’t. I don’t believe in hospitals.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Medici stared blankly at the little girl. Her sunglasses dropped down her face, and she peered down threateningly.
“I’m sorry,” the girl squeaked.
“TAKE ME THERE NOW!”
But the girl shook her head and looked up resolutely, proudly. Mrs. Medici began to tremble violently and shift from heel to heel.
“My son is in the emergency room, and you’re going to take me there, you little geisha!”
“No. I can’t. I’m sorry. I won’t. I really really really don’t believe in hospitals,” sputtered the girl.
Just then, a greasy-haired man in a ripped leather jacket poked his pretty nose out the door.
“Is there a problem here?”
“YES!” Mrs. Medici exclaimed, “My son, Perry Caesar, is in the hospital!”
“Very well, but everybody is sleeping right now. You’re making a racket, ma’am.”
“It’s three in the afternoon! I want to see my son!”
The woman looked hysterical. Every hair on her fur coat seemed to stand up straight. She peered curiously into the leather man’s eyes. No response, not even the slightest sign of self-subservience. She began to cry.
“Oh, you want to go to the hospital now, is that what you want?” the man began to croon. A smooth smile spread across his face, and he glared at her for a moment. “Of course, baby, I’ll take you there! I’ll take you, Mrs. P-Man; I know Brooklyn like the back of my ears.”
Mrs. Medici smiled a coy little smile, “It’s Lucile for you, young man. And it’s the back of your hands.”
“Oh?” smirked the man, greasy from temple to temple, “What about my hands?”
