Charcoal, Graphite, Ink; 6 1/8” x 4 ¾”
Erin Jade Mullikin
Late at night when the world is a curled cochlea,
I reach back into my years, sift through old pockets.
Sitting in my grandmother’s polyester chair,
I find I can remember more years than I knew I had.
On the TV, JFK is waving to his country
in his last parade.
We all know how his story unfolds.
I leave the chair, cross the carpet to the TV
where I adjust aluminium foil antennae.
Static pushed through, then all is gone.
My years are like this:
a clear picture, then blaring static.
It’s numbing to recall
the dying of sound
as well as the sound of dying.
In the morning,
I find my crucifix is growing from the kitchen table.
Black crows have started to nest on the arms.
I’ve considered writing a song to the rhythm of striking matches,
but matches burn quickly, and my song would be far too fast.
So I fill the sink with cold water,
climb in wearing my mother’s wedding dress.
This time sleep will find me counting shivers.
I launch inflated smile piles,
Yet my understanding of the spirit is in changes.
I never weigh less than what’s alive.
I have crept on things doing
Agreement with facades I keep doing on ground.
Week after month
My sockets test
The effect a slight sense of moral outrage fakes.
The bottom of the sea is empty and new.
Infinity gives birth to you to screw.
BUT THE QUESTION REMAINS…
Despite the historic election of Barack Hussein Obama to the Presidency of the United States of America, the race card is still the hole card of choice. That Ralph Nader’s election night use of the slur “Uncle Tom” in a radio interview earned him several minutes of face-time hours later on Fox News is proof enough of this. Chris Rock summed up Americans’ hypocrisy surrounding race and language a month prior to the election on his HBO special Kill the Messenger, demanding sarcastically, “But the question remains, can white people say the word ‘nigger’?” Rock had an appropriately obscure response to the controversy, offered with a grin, “Answer: not really.” (more…)
A Writer’s Paradise
If Frank O’Hara had not been in the position to receive a measly hour lunch break, we would never have read any lunch poems. Conversely, if Frank O’Hara had been able to watch every season of Will & Grace, his collected works would probably be half the size that it is. Are such distractions a necessity to write decent stuff or do they murder all of that precious time that could be put towards the act itself? (more…)
With A Clean, Dry Hand
The fluorescent lighting burns especially bright on
the white office walls. Some top dog’s wife selected
gold-metal framed abstract poster prints that hang
self-importantly. An executive wearing a discount
warehouse $299 dark suit enters the waiting room. He
thinks the suit looks like it cost five times more.
He’s the only one believing that. With a clean, dry
hand he presents a plain, manila folder to a lone man
sitting on the edge of an uncomfortable side chair.
The dark-suit says: “You will want to review the
enclosed document carefully. Consult with your
attorney if you like.” The seated man carefully takes
the manila folder, and then, leans forward to vomit on
the worn, plush nylon-blend beige carpeting. The
executive curls his lip into a self-satisfactory
grimace and says: “I’m sorry things turned out this
way, but I know this is for the best.”
During my freshman year in college, and this would be year one of three years being a freshman in college, I met a girl who would forever live in my memory as Candy Mandy. I never can recall her real name. Neither Candy nor Mandy, I believe it may have been Alice. (more…)