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a literary nonprofit with a handful of ongoing projects,

including a monthly, submission-based reading series
featuring all forms of writing without introductions or
author banterof which sparkle + blink is a verbatim
transcript. The series moves around to a different venue
every month, appearing so far in bars, art galleries,
music halls, bookstores, night clubs, a greenhouse, a
ballroom, a theater, a mansion, a sporting goods store, a
pirate store, a print shop, a museum, a hotel, and a cave.
There are only two rules to submit:
1. you have to commit to the date to submit
2. you only get up to 8 minutes

info + updates + video of every reading

sparkle + blink 60
2014 Quiet Lightning
artwork Lana Licata
Resolutions by Alex Peterson first appeared at The Rumpus
We Dream Big the World by Joseph Bodie first appeared in slab
Cockroach by Daniel Riddle Rodriguez
first appeared in Fourteen Hills
book design by j. brandon loberg
set in Absara
Promotional rights only.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form
without permission from individual authors.
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author(s) is illegal.
Your support is crucial and appreciated.
su bmit @ qui e tl i g h tn i n g . o r g

curated by

Lapo Guzzini and Evan Karp

featured artist

Lana Licata

ALEX PETERSON Resolutions 1



Microsoft Word...




Jesus and the Future

of Forty Unused Tissues


We Dream Big the World 17





The Most Dangerous

Beach in California



Yeah, You Know Me








Newport Beach



A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL
produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on
the first Monday of every month, of which these books
(sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts.
Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is
Evan Karp
founder + president
Chris Cole
managing director
Josey Lee
public relations
Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kristen Kramer
Kelsey Schimmelman
Sarah Ciston
Katie Wheeler-Dubin

director of books
director of films

Sidney Stretz & Laura Cern Melo

art directors
Rose Linke & RJ Ingram
outreach directors
Sarah Maria Griffin & Ceri Bevan
directors of special operations
If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in
helpingon any levelplease send us a line:
e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

- SET 1 -






Im sitting in a taqueria near 24th and Mission when

I see a man walk in with a little girl. Shes wearing
a Princess Jasmine backpack and playing with her
fathers phone while he orders at the counter. When
he pays, he takes a number and looks for a place for
them to sit. Its busy and the only spot available is the
unbussed table next to mine. I watch as he gathers
up someone elses crumpled napkins and a basket of
uneaten chips and tosses them into the trash. A halffinished Negra Modelo is also left on the table, but he
hesitates and doesnt throw it awayhe pushes it to
the side.
The food arrives and he eats with his daughter, and
while shes talking about her favorite teacher and a
song shes learning at school, the beer is next to him.
He doesnt glance at it longingly or fumble at the
half-peeled gold foil with his fingers, but its there.
When they finish, he helps his daughter put on her
backpack and clears the table himself. The last thing
he does is pick up the amber bottle and swirl the
remaining liquid around inside, watching it in the
light. Its so gentle the way he finally places it in
the bin, takes his daughters hand and walks out
the door.

My uncle Terry, one of the all time great drunks in

our family, well-known to local law enforcement and
bar waitresses from here to Sacramento, lived with
us through his first divorce. He was trying to dry out
and had a collection of silver sobriety coins stacked
precariously on his nightstand and scattered among
old receipts and Lotto tickets that hadnt delivered.
He told me at a Christmas party when I was thirteen
that being an alcoholic takes all the guesswork out of
New Years resolutions.
Dont screw up, he said. Just over and over. Each
day is a new year.
The coins are lost now somewhere in my parents
house and Terry didnt stay clean. We watched him
fall apart from a distance. Resolutions sound like
decisions, but theyre more like hopes or prayers.
Even if each day is a new year, each morning its
the same you. But I think about that man and his
daughter, about the way he took her hand, and maybe
not. Maybe one day you wake up and it isnt.



Dear Me,
Because the ground beneath New Orleans is too
low and the water table too high, bodies are said
to pop out of the soil here like jealous lovers, like
what happened with Enosh when Arthur sent me a
postcard that was maybe a love letter and Enosh said
he wants you and later, Ill punch him in the face.
What I need to tell Enosh is that I dont want Arthur,
I want Enosh, I want Enosh, damn it. And so the
gravediggers would pile big rocks inside coffins to
weigh them down, and so I must pile big rocks inside
my friends like Arthur, that tell them I am unavailable for abovementioned letters, I must pile big rocks
inside Enosh that weigh down those firecracker
feelings, big rocks that make his heart heavy with
knowing that I want him and that I am satisfied.
These rocks I do not have yet. These rocks will begin
to accumulate when I bare my innermost, which I
have not yet done, which I try to do every moment,
like on the floor in the living room yesterday after
we talked about relationships and friendships
and how, if we are to have an open relationship
where I am hooking up with other men as well as

receiving and inviting love letters, Enosh will live

in the guest house. I dont want to hook up with
other men right now, but Enosh classifies sending
and receiving love letters as basically the same thing.
What if all my letters are love letters? What if I cant
help talking about sex with everyone? The thing is, I
dont want him to live in the guest room. I want us to
live together, in the same bed. Maybe I shouldnt read
my love letters outloud to Enosh anymore.

Dear Jonah,
When we talked about what good sex meant in
Giannas kitchen, under the exposed beams and the
disco light, this is what I meant: Good sex is hella
communication. I want to be told how beautiful and
sexy I am and how much you want to bury your face
in my pussy. I want to be put on a pedestal. I want
to be adored. I will do the same to you. I want to be
told how respected I am and how much you want me
to cum all over you. I want you to ask me how I like
it, how long I like it, that you got enough patience to
watch the Titanic sink. That will get me wet. Good
sex for me is getting touched real slow and soft in
the beginning. I dont want my clit or my inner labia
dive-bombed with dry fingers, I want your fingers
slow against my vagina, warming it up. Then I want
my clit rubbed, the right side, nothing direct, I want
it soft and slow, your fingers in circles, then I want
it faster, but not too fast. If youre too hard or too

rough, it will hurt and then Ill be anticipating pain

and wont be relaxed. Relaxation is key. When my clit
is swollen and hard, I want your face in my pussy. I
want to be licked and sucked and I want to cum in
your mouth. Then I want to be fucked. I want your
hard dick in me. I want to be fucked in all positions.
As long as its hard in me, take me however you want.
Lets take a break from fucking, Ill suck your cock.
Lets get back to fucking, I want you to make me cry.
Yeah, that hard. I want you to fuck me on tables, on
chairs, from behind, I want to be on top, I want it
from all positions. This is what I meant.

Dear Me,
Mermaids eat fresh oysters, thats why they look
so happy, do I look happy, do I look like a mermaid
without my shoes, I mean without my shirt? I ate 32
oysters for lunch today. I am wearing fine man boxers
that I bought for Raphael in Berlin, I got a pack at
the Turkish market on the river, they were too small
and itchy on him so I stole them all back. When
you live with someone and you date that someone,
you hear the same stories repeated over and over.
It is interesting what stories are repeated. I think a
story that I repeat is that I am a twin and that I am
trying to become happier, which is rather vague. I
lent $5,000 to Enosh and we havent talked yet about
when Ill get it back, but Im less anxious than pissed.
I am pissed a lot these days. Or sad. I guess theyre
Wh e e le r- Du bi n

different faces to the same horse. I woke up in the

middle of the night from nightmares, it was difficult
calming myself. In the dream, I said that I needed to
have positive things said to me and then I woke up

Dear Sanaa,
If a calm crocodile was sitting inside my house Id
take the stairs slowly and open the windows wide to
let in the swamp cuz everyone knows crocodiles love
the wet and the damp and Im not one to neglect my
houseguests. Id put water on the stove to make some
fennel English breakfast tea, ask how the crocodiles travels had gone and if shed like milk or rose
syrup with her tea. I love a good story, and if she had
one, Id listen with my all. Throughout her visit, Id
maintain eye contact, for crocodiles are dangerous
beasts. I too am dangerous, but only when stirred up
or left wanting. The surest way to stirring up a beast
is disinterest, a lack of focus inside your sternum,
how you approach the asking of questions. Every
southern beast wants to be treated as honey queen or
venison king; down here in Louisiana, you learn how
to appease or suffer the consequences.



T C H:
Your timeline is plotted in an interface as coordinates,
so you can travel through it like the city.
You are always being born on the South side. You are
always going off to college in Midtown. Your mother
is always handing you a sack lunch on the corner of
22nd and Harrison. You are always rolling your eyes.
Your uncle is always chasing you around Grandmas,
down a few blocks, with a hair brush, and the hair
brush is always yanking tangles that are there because
you are always rubbing a purple balloon on your head
and lifting it up, and always learning static electricity,
and showing your family how your hair can defy
How long will it take you to walk from post-collegiate
adolescence, too much to do and none of it will
payall the way back to high school theatre rehearsal
breaks, piling into Marcos car, laying across laps in
the backseat, listening to Copeland or Death Cab
and knowing every word?

And this you who is walking through the interface

is this a you who is watching another you be born
always, and another you who is auditioning for Les
Miserables, and another you who is making the
decision to try your first cigarette?
And this you who is walkingis this a you who is
always walking, and always watching another you
who is always being born, and who is always getting
the part of Fantine, and who is always making the
decision to blame the pack of cigarettes on someone
else? Could there be another you who is walking to
that time you walked through the interface, watching
this you, as you watch other yous?
And the you who is walking, is this a you who can
stop watching, and can get back in Marcos car, and
lay across your old friends laps, and sing, not because
you love the song (though you do) but because you
love to sing?
And if this you who has stopped watching can get
back in the car, then might this you forget the words?
Can this you get in first and let Justin lay across the
laps, and feel the weight of his head on your leg? Will
you now be both always laying across laps, and always
feeling Justins head in your leg? Will you create a
new lifetime of coordinates that you can later walk
to at some point, when you have unlocked the travel
constraints of a timeline that moves only from past to

And this you who is listening, whose past I have

seriously misrepresented, Im sorry, but I only have
my own past to draw from as examples. But, if there
are interfaces that turn timelines into cities, would
you show me yours? Could we walk together? Would
you walk through mine? What if we had all the time
in the world?

Sa ra h Ca rp e nt e r



W H O?
I went someplace and heard a person mention me,
mention me by name. I got very excited, more
excited than Id been in years, because this person,
whoever they were, was not my uncle, sister,
or co-worker. I was so looking forward to making
this persons acquaintance, and getting the
entire back-story in regard to how they became
aware of me, and perhaps more importantly,
discovering the component factors that lead them to
speak of me to others. Id always dreamed of
being spoken of to others, by someone other than
myself. Naturally I was curious in regard to
what my name, and therefore my person, meant to
the speaker of it. And I was almost desperate
to find out how many other times they had spoken of
me, and to how many people exactly. It was
probably too much to hope for an exact count, but I
would settle for an approximate number.
Were there particular settings and contexts that
prompted them to mention me more than at
times? And if indeed there were, might more of
such contexts be encouraged? That would
certainly be my wish. I knew enough to be subtle

in suggesting it. It would be too much, for

instance, to imagine people bringing my name up
before making love, but I just couldnt help but
imagine it, and so I did. I started to hope that this
possible utterance of my name, when utilized
right before love-making, might suffuse the
atmosphere with extra promise, the bedroom
on certain occasions a bit of a role of the dice. It
would comfort me to hear (through the
grapevine, of course) that when my name was, shall
we say, whispered into the ear of one of the
lovers, momentum did not falter or fade, the
impersonation of fulfillment was not called on to
make an appearance, and the train actually arrived at
the station. This was a most satisfying
contemplation, since its thoughtful origins
would make my joy at having heard my name
mentioned larger than the pleasure that
accompanies recognition, since Id now begun to
how others might also benefit from it. When
celebrating ones self, it is prudent to balance out
ones heady feeling with some consideration for
people in general. I was suddenly aware of a
wise and expansive aspect of my character that must
have laid dormant, until this moment. Well,
it was time to introduce myself to the person who
had spoken of me, but it was a crowded room,
and when I looked around I no longer saw the person
from whose mouth my name had sprung. I

became more distressed than Id been in years, and

was visited there and then by an unimaginable
sensation of loss. After all, it had only been a moment
ago that I had, for the first time in my life,
felt myself publicly found. When I finally emerged
from a deep and familiar sense of
invisibility, I asked myself: was there a way forward?
No clear answer presented itself, so I went
up to the first person I saw, although in truth I saw a
lot of people, but I picked one out of the
many, in the same way that I had been picked out, to
be spoken of to the many, ever so recently.
And I asked this selected person, desperate as I was
for a way forward, I asked him: had he seen
the person who spoke of me?
And who might you be? he replied. This was a
question Id always feared might come. I was
not prepared for it, because I had not, despite years of
looking into the matter, been able to come
to a firm, or even wobbly conclusion on the subject.
There I was, the prisoner of a brutal irony; at
the very moment when my name had been
mentioned, and I would have had the
opportunity to
inquire as to why it had been, and what exactly it
signified, and thus got to know more, or at least
got to know something about myself, from an outside,
and hopefully objective source; at that
very moment the messenger had vanished into thin
Pe t e r Bu lle n


How do you mean? I asked, hoping for an escape

hatch by replying to his penetrating question
with a question of my own.
Well, how can I tell you if Ive heard you brought up,
if I dont know who you are?
Raymond, I said, Im Raymond. It wasnt true. I
didnt even look like a Raymond.
If anyone actually knew me, theyd know my name
was Paul.
Never heard of you, he said, and walked away.





Jesus laid out forty unused tissues on the floor of his
He named each one when the right time came.
He began to think about the future of each tissue and
was confounded by the
reality that not all the tissues had a future that he
could play a part in.
There are so many parts to the future, he said.
He thrusted his hands into his pocket and pulled out
some cake batter and
rubbed it all over his face. He wet his lips and called
himself the future.
Lets all assume youre familiar with fear. If you
know me, you know fear.






Now. Thats how it begins. With the word, Now. It

began the instant you read the word, Now. And who
can say how long that word was on the page, existing
but ignored? Its possible it was always there, waiting,
just for you; its possible it was never there, the very
act of reading occasioned its existence. Check, is it
still there? Go on, look. Of course it is. Right at the
beginning, as it should be. And look, youre right in
the thick of it. Lucky you. At least, we hope you feel
as much: lucky. But wait, who is this we, hoping you
feel as much: lucky?
We are the now, the instant, the constituent, the
possible, and the ever-stagnant present never-ever
there. We are an infinite combination. We are a
combination infinite. Infinite combination, we are.
Well, you see what we mean.
The point is, we exist. Where, you ask? Oh, you didnt,
you say. Well you did now, because we put that question in your mind. And theres not a whole lot you
can do about it. Somewhere between the page and
your mind, we exist. But our meaning, our purpose,

our significance, lies somewhere in the interstice.

The relationship is somewhat symbiotic, parasitic
even. We need a host. And right now, youre it.
Like we said, lucky you.
It cant be that bad, though, can it? Having us in your
head all the time, bouncing around, expressing,
communicating, pondering. If you think about it,
well, you cant think about it without us. There
would be no you without us. And who are you, you
ask? Oh, you didnt, you say. Weve been over this,
dont get cute. You are who we say you are; you are
who we describe you as being; we conceptualize you;
and you can be anything; an infinite combination; a
combination infinite; infinite combination, you.
Well, you see what we mean.
Or perhaps, you dont.
Dont worry.
You will.
We were sitting in the coffee shop when it happened.
At least, I think thats where we were. Wait, no, Im
sure of it, thats where we were when it happened.
Am I, though? Yes, I am. At least, as much as I can be

about anything. Which isnt to say all that much. Can

we really prove that we were ever actually anywhere?
Wait, this has started all wrong. Its too confusing too
soon. Let me start over.
We were sitting in the coffee shop when it happened.
At our usual table, the one over in the corner, against
the far wall. Its the best spot in the place. Its the
kind of table you would sit at if you were one of
those bad-ass types, like a hit-man or something, and
you wanted to make sure you could survey every
entry point and have your back against the wall at the
same time. Thats where we were. We could see
everything. Which is why it was so odd, what
happened. We didnt see it coming.
Not to say that we were really paying all that much
attention. We each had our drinks and something to
read. I had my black coffee and the paper; Julie had
her tea and a book on spirituality which would
consume her until the next war or famine or massivescale-genocide destroyed any conviction she had in
the interconnectivity of human experience.
The point is, we were busy, engaged.
Still, I never thought something like that would
happen to me. Not in a million years. Which is why I
still have a hard time believing that it actually did
happen to me. Isnt it possible, no matter how remote,
that it happened to someone else? And if there is that
Jose p h Bodi e


possibility, no matter how remote, shouldnt I at least

entertain the notion? Maybe one of Julies books isnt
that far off the mark, maybe it all happened to
someone else and Im remembering their experience
as my own. After all, if what they say about
superposition is true, then every particle exists in
every possible location simultaneously. Wouldnt it
then be true that I was there when someone else
experienced what happened at the coffee shop? Wait,
or wouldnt that make us the same person? Who the
hell did this happen to, anyway? Maybe it was in a
movie, or a story I read once that began:
We were sitting in the coffee shop when it happened.
At our usual table, the one over in the corner, against
the far wall. The one John likes to describe as the
hit-man table. Every single time we go, he always says,
I hope we get the hit-man table.
Im supposed to think its still funny.
He was drinking his coffee and reading the
newspaper. As if that waste of ink could even begin
to tell him what was going on in the world. Every
article, global, local, or editorial, presupposing some
pretense at objectification, at knowledge. As if
anyone working for that paper could comment on
I let him read it because it keeps him from talking
about the table.

He would tell me later he told people that I was

reading some book on spirituality, but thats not true
at all. He likes to say those things, to paint me as that
type of person, just to undermine my intelligence in
social situations. The irony is, most of the couples we
hang out with share my sentiments concerning
metaphysics, quantum mechanics, particle physics,
and the interconnectivity of human experience.
So really, the jokes on him.
I was actually reading a collection of short stories.
Most of them were forgettable, unremarkable really.
Ill never forget the one I was reading when it
happened, though. It was a story by an author Ive
never heard of before. It was called, We Dream Big
the World, and it began in the most interesting way:
Now. Thats how it begins, with the word, Now, he
said and took a sip of his beer. Thats how Im going
to write it. After the opening section each part will
break off, sort of disintegrate, unravel, you know?
The bar was quiet and empty. The couple sat at a table
in the corner, against the far wall. It was their table.
They preferred this table because they could be left
alone in the corner and still survey all the entrance
points and see who was coming in to the bar. The
hit-man table, they would refer to it jokingly.
Its interesting, the woman said.
Jose p h Bodi e


You dont like it.

No, its not that. Its not that I dont like it. I just
wonder, the woman said and she leaned forward and
rested her head in her hand and tapped the side of her
cheek with her index finger.
Wonder what?
I dont know. How long? How long do you think you
can jerk your reader around like that? Theres a point,
theres a certain point, and theyll stop reading.
Yes, but, its all a matter of, you know.
Finding that point.
Exactly, the man said and set his glass down hard on
the table and waved his index finger at his friends
face. Exactly. Its all about finding that point.
Its risky, the woman said.
Look, listen, the man said and leaned in towards his
friend and put both his arms on the table, its all
about how you write the story. Its about the words
themselves. If you make it interesting enough,
beautiful enough, clever enough, dirty enough,
whatever, people will keep reading. You just have to
be sure of the words. Thats the tricky part.


Yeah, the woman said, I dont know. I dont disagree

with you. The words matter, to be sure, but youve got
to have a plot, characters, conflict, an arch of some
kind. If you go too far afield, youll lose too many
sheep. And readers, my friend, are sheep.
Youre wrong! the man said and clapped his hands
and laughed. Youre wrong. Look, listen, read this.
Read this and youll understand. Youll see that it at
least can be done.
The man grabbed a book that was sitting on the table
and opened it.
Go on, read it.
Now; it begins with the word Now, the ever-stagnant
present never-ever there: a presence with a
predilection towards forward progress rests on what
came before; misdirection, which direction; propels,
but what for; station: appellation: actors; comic or
tragic? Comet satisfaction: honest and satisfied;
binary divides; false dichotomy supplies; the wrong
choice; numerology, Torah, a voice? no, a number for
God: odd, maybe; eternal? who can say, see; what
about imaginary numbers? decibel points? the prime
prime number? Laughs, laughter; here, now, and
ever-after; disjointed character actors; God torn
asunder through logical blunders; ever-present
presence never accepted; eternal; stagnant; magnetic
attraction to whats happened; now; infinite
Jose p h Bodi e


combination; combination infinite; comb nation in

fin it; co-bomb gnat ion finish; loose association
breeds displacement and replaces narrative
stabilization; T-minus 48 words and counting;
doubting Thomas hit the nail on the head; promise:
better off dead than the forgiving living sinning
unremitting; now; in the ever-stagnant present
never-ever there; presence; first law of
thermodynamics; question the veracity of you and
me; superposition: contention which dismisses any
mention of the contradiction: individuality; distinct;
eternity is the
Now. It begins with the word Now, he says, exhaling
a thick cloud-blue mist of smoke. Passing the joint to
her, he on his back rolled over, arms under the pillow,
resting his head, staring at the ceiling.
She the joint takes, to her mouth puts, and toke-toketoke, the smoke whirling around her head like light
ghostly lightning bugs. Yeah? laughs after she says
this. And where does it go from there?
I dont know, really. It kind of just trails off into this
somewhat nonsense, somewhat interconnected,
rhyming thing. I think itll make sense when I
perform it.
Spoken word should be spoken.
Exactly, says he, onto elbow, rolls over, awaiting the

joint; she, after exhaling smoky apparition, passes; the

roach his fingers gently pinch.
The room: small but comfortable, cozy even; one
window: blinds open, moonlight let in, welcomed
liquid guest, flooding the floor with yellow waves;
the bed: on the floor, no frame, old and beat up, but
does the job: the couple: havent left all day, lounging
around, like two hit-men on the lamb after a job,
laying low.
Hey, did you see that thing in the paper? she, waving
hand tells the joint no, resting on her side, verdant
green eyes scanning lovers profile, says.
What thing? Its a big paper, he, snuffing remaining
roach into ashtray, staring above, counting painted
stars, replies, snarky.
The thing, asshole, his arm she hits, but laughing,
about the coffee shop. The fucking car?
Oh, shit, yeah. I did see that. Ran right through the
front, didnt it?
Right through.
And silence and staring; he: painted stars; she: still the
profile, enamored; both: lost in thought, contemplative.
Jose p h Bodi e


Makes you wonder, doesnt it?

Bout what?
How its all going to end?
Oh, shut up, hit and a laugh, smaller this time, both,
Youre going to fuck my high all up.
Seriously, you dont ever wonder, rolls over, light
blue meets green, heads on pillows rest, How its
going to end?
Now. It began with the word Now, and it will end
with one. But the end of one thing is perhaps the
start of another. Perhaps not. Soon enough, this
paragraph will end. T-minus 180 words and counting.
But that doesnt mean this is over. Were not through
with you, nor you with us. Really, were ceasing to
become two separate things. Were becoming. Think
about it. See? There we are again, like we told you
earlier. And when this paragraph is over, t-minus 132
words and counting, you will no doubt go on to do
something else. Out there, so to speak. In the world.
Not that this wasnt one, a world that is. And not to
say that it was any less real for that matter. The point
is, when you go out there, you will communicate,
gesticulate, you will become a sign for others to read,
with your movements and sounds and gestures.

You will become us; we will become you. And then

well be becoming. Always. So even when this
paragraph is over, t-minus 36 words and counting, it
wont be the end. Not then. Not at that moment. And
who knows? Maybe there isnt one coming, an end
that is. All we can say for certain is that this
paragraph is over. Now.

Jose p h Bodi e


- SET 2 -






Here is the place

We pretend doesnt exist
This is the subject
We dont talk about
At the dinner table
In front of the kids
These are the desires
That cannot be placed
On the mantle
In the magazine rack
Left sitting on the browser
We agree to return
Every few months
With mumbles and averted eyes
We attempt dialogue
With an overpriced 3rd party
We fake the ritual
One more time
And call it sustainable

Knowing something
Has been rearranged
Without knowing what.





Gina waited for Iris to finish reading the warning
sign. The message was obvious from the illustrations:
blocky stick figures getting swallowed by giant
waves, yanked out to sea, dashed against boulders. No
blood, of course. Just cartoon lightning bolts at the
points of collision, where the stick figure man dies or
The most dangerous beach in California, Iris murmured to no one in particular, still staring at the sign.
Exasperated, Gina pushed on down the pathway
to the beach. She was carrying both beach chairs,
because delicate Iris, at age twenty-eight, had
somehow acquired a bad back. At thirty-two, Ginas
back was sturdy, if a little pudgy. The weekend had
been vast and achingly slow.
At least it was finally Sunday, and the late afternoon
sun signaled that soon it would be evening, and
soon Gina would have an excuse to go to bed,
and Iris would be going to her science conference
downtown the next morning.

The idea to go wine tasting that day had fizzled,

mostly because Gina had too many glasses of wine
the night before, when they went to dinner at the
modest Italian joint down the street from her house:
inconspicuous, safely far away from the boozy haunts
where Ginas friends liked to gather. Over dinner, Iris
had launched into a lecture about her dissertation,
something about combustion, and measuring the
immolation potential of chemical substrates at
different temperatures. The science of explosions.
Cool! Gina had said, leaning in across the table. Do
you wear a lab coat or a hazmat suit?
Iris just stared at her for a beat. It was a serious
question. Or, if it wasnt a serious question, Gina had
at least hoped for a laugh or a smile.
I mostly just wear jeans, said Iris.
It was then that Gina had ordered another bottle of
wine, and drank it all herself. Gina didnt wake up
until noon the next day. When she shambled out of
her bedroom, she found Iris in the kitchen, organizing
her mismatched coffee mugs in the cabinet by size:
largest to smallest with linear precision. Ginas head
So they got a late start, and wine tasting was off the
table. Trying to force her gravelly hangover voice into
a cheery pitch, Gina suggested that they just drive

north and find beaches. It would be spontaneous!

Iris just smiled in that cold, conciliatory way that
Gina remembered from when they were kids. Family
gatherings at the Fourth of July when Iris always set
the table, and Gina always climbed trees with the
neighborhood boys and then fell out and sprained
something. And when that happened, her cousin had
always been ready with an ice pack. And a smile.
At least the beach was stunning: grassy bluffs against
a sky that was blue in the sharp, prismatic way that
only happens in winter. The wind picked up when
they walked out onto the sand. Gina wished she had
brought more than a t-shirt and a threadbare denim
jacket. She dropped the beach chairs in a clattery pile
by the trailhead.
There were campsites on this beach, the most
dangerous beach in California. Gina couldnt
understand why anyone would camp at a beach where
you werent allowed to swim, when running with
abandon into the waves and diving into the churn
was the best part of beaches. She supposed this type
of camping was for people with a lot of self-restraint,
who were pleased with just staring at the landscape
and dipping a toe in.
Speaking of which, Iris edged towards the water in
measured steps. When the surf foamed up to her feet,
she scurried away. Gina watched Iris do this several
times, and then, in an act of defiance, Gina marched
Eli se Hu nt e r


into the ocean up to her thighs, soaking her leggings.

She felt what those warning signs were about; the
water curled around her legs and pulled at her like
cold ribbons.
Youre getting all wet! shouted Iris. Shrill. Make
sure you can still stand!
Iris approached the outer lip of the water line,
craning her neck forward, not wanting to take a
step into the ferocious ocean. Gina stayed a moment
longer, feeling the icy water lap at her legs, until her
skin tingled and then went numb, silently daring her
cousin to join her. When Iris didnt budge, her mouth
drawn down and worried, Gina walked back to the
shore, kicking seaweed out of her way.
They walked towards the bluffs. Iris was sniffling
from the cold and the wind, and wrapped her baggy
sweater around her. Gina suggested they turn around.
She didnt want to be responsible for Iris getting
sick for the biggest combustion conference in the
universe. She would surely hear about it from her
mother and aunt if Iris got sick.
On the way back, Iris steered them even more
inland, close to the campsites. Draping fibrous trees
protected the sites from the wind, and the campers
huddled around crackly fires in sawed-off garbage
cans. Gina smelled beans and bacon. Okay, so this noswimming beach had some appeal.

At the center campsite, there was a hot tub hitched

to a trailer. Several tanned, burly men had stuffed
themselves into the hot tub, and they were drinking
margaritas. Gina tried to steer Iris closer to the ocean,
giving the hot tub a wide berth.
Its warmer by the campsites, said Iris.
I dunno, said Gina, these guys look a little bit hey
ladies. Im not in the mood for hey ladies.
What do you mean? said Iris. She had probably
never been hit on in her life.
Fine, said Gina.
She moved to walk on the side closest to the hot tub,
an odd mix of protectiveness and resentment brewing
in her chest. As they walked past, Gina gave the men a
tight smile. Her head still hurt.
Hey! yelled one of the burly men. Gina and Iris
turned around. You! Gina bristled as she noticed he
was shouting at her cousin. Nice Gap sweater!
What? said Iris, bewildered. She played with the
hem. The sweater had a high crew neck and droopy
sleeves, and was a pilly fusion of black and white
knots that Gina imagined would absorb stains well.
Or combustion burns or whatever.

Eli se Hu nt e r


I said, nice Gap sweater! He shouted again, with a

grin and a sassy head swivel.
Its Dockers, shouted Iris back. Circa nineteen
ninety six. A deadpan monotone.
Gina tugged at Iriss wrist, wanting to get away
before the men could find something else to mock:
Iriss frizzy hair, her overbite. Gina had encountered
these groups of snide, drunk men many times, had
flirted with them, gone home with them. No good
could come of it. You just keep walking. You dont
encourage them.
Then, snickering, but also a tip of his margarita glass
in her cousins direction, the man shouted, Can I try
that thing on?
It would get wet, said Iris, edging closer.
It wont, I promise, he said. Iris let go of Ginas grip
and walked over. Gina trailed helplessly behind.
They were well groomed, these men, early thirties
maybe. Ambiguous sexual orientation. Smooth skin.
No wedding rings.
Iris shook off her sweater. Her loose t-shirt
underneath hid her slender body, which Gina always
thought Iris had taken for granted, or possibly never
noticed. Iris handed her sweater to the heckler.

He sat up in the hot tub, exposing the top of his

broad chest.
He stuffed his head through the neck of the sweater,
and just as the hem was about to graze the water,
Iris swept the sweater up in her hands, and tied the
sleeves around his head in a ridiculous, lopsided
turban. She knotted it so that it made a bow right in
the middle of his forehead.
There is only one logical way that it wont get wet,
she stated.
Laughter detonated around the hot tub, a sudden
flash, an explosion. Someone poured Iris a drink. Gina
stood in what felt like ground zero, not knowing
whether to walk or to undress, wondering what she
had been missing the whole time.

Eli se Hu nt e r




Besides having wild sex orgies, drinking booze all
night long, stuffing yourself with food, and then
puking it all up, Mr. Carle says, pausing for a beat,
the Greeks were really good at math. Hmm. Yeah
youd wake up in a sand box, completely hung over
and drawing triangles in the sand, until eventually
those angles in the triangles began to make some
fuckin sense!
There isnt a kid in the classroom that isnt focused
on Carle as he waves his arms behind his podium.
His eyes are owlish behind his glasses, and despite
everything, I feel a terrible attraction. It draws me
here, taking notes in the back on the premise of
helping my students later on in Directed Studies. I
distract myself by reading his podium, which has a
rash of stickers plastered on it, the highest up reading
May the NET FORCE be with you. A pen dangles
between my fingers.
And this Carle says, drawing a skewered circle with
a 26 degree tilt on the whiteboard, is Earth. Carles
magnified eyes fill his glasses as he stares down at
us. In space, he adds with a wicked grin, and some

kid mouths, Duh! Titters erupt, Carle among them.

Hes got to be forty-five and still has a full head of hair.
And the axis is tilted like God skewered the freaking
thing, like a huge Earth shish kebab.
Carle goes into a spiel about the axial tilt being the
reason for the seasons. Then he switches gears.
Did you know that teachers have these looong
meetings sometimes and theyre really just WILD
ORGIES? Hah! Bet you didnt know that. And the
librarian, Mrs. Dutton, wow! oh Renee, did you
just, hmm hmmm, throw up a little? In your mouth?
Like this? Carle tips forward on his toes and makes a
gagging noise, then mimes wiping his mouth.
You have to be a good pretender, as a teacher. You
have to be because youre working with something
bigger than yourself by far, and nobody really cares
if you have cramps, and they especially dont need to
know if you stayed up late the night before (and its
only Tuesday). As a resource specialist in the clique
called The Special Ed Teachers, Im already loved or
One afternoon, I go into the faculty lounge
during lunchtime, where people are flopped upon
couches, huddled on chairs, microwaving leftovers,
unwrapping bologna sandwiches, cracking open a
Diet Coke, stirring a Yoplait.

One English teacher, known in side gossip as the

woman with lots of cats and no husband, tells me that
one of our shared students, a rough teen girl who I
am quite close with, has the brain of a flea. Im taken
back by this comment. The woman laughs and I see
tuna fish and wheat bread in her craw. Really, she
says. That girl. And I tune her voice out and think,
Ill never put another kid in her English class again as
long as I work here.
Here comes Mr. Franklin, the goofy and effeminate
U.S. History teacher. Hes a rare treat in the faculty
roomabout as infrequent a visitor as myself. Hi
guys, he says. His voice reminds the students of the
teacher on South Park who carries a hand-puppet.
The ladies look around. Mr. Franklin is the only
guy. The ladies say hello and then fall back into
their suddenly private conversations. Mr. Franklin
announces hes going to have kayak races in the
swimming pool for Earth Day, and would anyone
like to get involved? His gaze locks with mine and
I see joy in his expression. Weve taken students
on a camping together, a year agoa trip where all
the luggage flew off the van while zooming up the
highway. I shake my head, no thanks! He shrugs,
leaves a flier, and heads out.
The bell rings and eight hundred pairs of shoes patter
in the hallway on the other side of the wall. I rise
slowlyI dont have Directed Studies class to teach
Je ssi ca Ha h n


this next period. Ever since the administration

decided to shake things up in the special education
department, we have to push in to a mainstream
class at least one period a day. I eat one last bite of
lunch, then head out to a physics class that I cant
seem to drop.
Hey, you down with OPP Carle sings, then stops
suddenly when he realizes his audience has a blank
stare. What? You dont know that song? Cmon!
The kids titter. Carle looks at me. You Miss Hahn,
you know the lyrics right? You remember nineties
hip-hop? He looks like Satan smiling, a lascivious
grin.You down with OPP!?
My heart thumps. Dont draw attention to me!
Heads turn, and I can almost see their thoughts, their
curiosity as to why Im in their room, like some adult
being let back into high school to finish her diploma.
Ninety percent of the kids here dont know anything
about special education.
Carle takes on a falsetto: You down with OPP!?
I sing back, small voiced, You know me.
Carle claps and makes a sound, a triumphant hollergrunt that Ive validated his ranting. He commands
the classs attention: Thats Other Peoples puh

puh Pussy hovered on the edge of his lips. Lets

just say property. Hes crazyif the principal could
see him now, how could he not get fired? I wonder if
hes always like this, and how hes taught for so many
years without the kids telling on him. Not one kid.
Now he laughs at them, Hah hah, he cries, shaking
his head, Youre all too young.
He swivels back to the whiteboard and onwards with
his soliloquy on how the Greeks figured out the
radius of the Earth.
I love going home, Carle tells his physics class, and
some of the students nod. I love it, he cries, like
a starving man who walks through the desert to
discover a caf serving up coffee and buttermilk
biscuits, and scrambled eggs with green onions and
hot sauce. He cocks a wild eyebrow and pounds his
podium. You know why?
Why? come a few replies.
Carle spins around and clasps his hands under his
chin. Because of making sweet sweet love, he
croons, batting his eyelashes to collective laughter.
He opens his eyes and fixes a stare upon us. To my
wife, of course, he clarifies. He points at a kid. And
you thought I meant my dog! He laughs and we laugh.

Je ssi ca Ha h n


Only some of the kids have ever seen Carles wife,

but her description was well circulated until we
knew she wasnt just any old marm of an English
teacher (who doesnt teach at our school, by the
way), but a tall, leggy blonde with big cahongas that
Carle undoubtedly milks like a desperate calf. Were
making a baby, Carle tells us, and its wonderful
trying to accomplish the task.
There are mixed reactions: the salivating kids who
squelch hard-ons under a table, the virginal ones
who hold their breath, the virile type of both sexes
who laugh knowingly. But Im doggone tired, Carle
huffs, drawing the back of his hairy hand across his
forehead. He flips on the switch for the overhead
projector. Okay, warm ups.
Carle wants us to go over significant figures. More
math, my bane. Significant figures are used by
scientists to show how precise theyve measured
something. We finish a set of conversion problems
where we determined such trivia as how many second
there are in a year, (do you really want to know?
There are 31,536,000 seconds in a year) or how many
feet per second a car traveling 55 mph would travel
(which would be 81 feet per second). I say we, but its
not me. Im a teacher, I just look on while the kids
We have this lab to show you the importance of
significant digits. Carle goes to a box of supplies

close to me. I can smell his body, his sweat and

clothing detergent, and its wonderful. He looks at
me, his back to the kids, and winks.
Turning to the class with a ball of twine held high,
he announces, Youre gonna measure the radius of
your head. How the hell? Well with measuring the
circumference first, of course. He strides back to
the whiteboard and scribbles C=2r. Then he goes
to the nearest girl, a quiet one with braces and a long
ponytail, and wraps the twine around her head.
What a perfectly round head you have, he says, then
laughs. Just kidding.
He returns to the box of goodies, wiggling his
eyebrows at me, and pulls out a couple of wooden
blocks. He is so close, I see the hairs in his nose
sticking out in blonde highlights from the slanting
sun through the windows.
He presses a block against his big nose and breathes
in. Ah, the smell of freshly cut pine. He breathes
out, a devious expression on his face. Youre going
to measure the volume of a piece of wood. Pick any,
theyre all different. He waves a couple in the air
then stops and looks at me. I dont know about you,
Miss Hahn, but when I do this He smiles. I like to
do the head first, then go for the wood. How about

Je ssi ca Ha h n


I am dumbfounded, caught in the spotlight. If any

students ever wondered why I was here in the back
of their classroom, they really are wondering now. I
laugh along with some of the kids. I cant think of a
response except to make a face (but think, well shit
thats the way I like it too, Carle!).
Uh oh, he says, clapping a hairy hand over his chin,
was that sexual harassment?
My cheeks burn. N-no, I stammer, its okay.
He laughs at his own scenario and strides across the
room, back to the battered podium.
My wife is pregnant! Carle hollers, eyes near
popping out of his head. Sweet jesus, were gonna
have a baby!
The thought is appalling, just for a moment, and I
hope it wont be a girl child. Someone starts clapping.
The sound is infectious, spreading until the room is
a din of congratulatory excess. Carle grins and eats
it up like an In-N-Out wild style burger, onions and
special sauce all over the place.
Thank you, he says and gives a look that tells us
he loves us; if eyes could smile, he has them. I can
finally take a night off!

Carle is at his podium, looking out of sorts when we

squeeze through the door and into our chairs, not
giving us a hello or a hairy handshake or commenting
on someones hairdo. I had a long night last night,
he tells us. Visions instantly pop up of him doing his
wife doggy-style, both of them howling through the
We had a miscarriage, he says. My baby died, Carle
says as he takes off his greasy glasses and pulls the
back of a monkeyish hand across his eyelids. He
starts crying, a shoulder-shaking, hiccuping scene.
The florescent lights sizzle in their rectangular cases
overhead. I hear a student whispering, and another
says she is sorry. Most of the students look awkward.
I see a couple of faces turn to me, as if by being the
other adult in the room, I know what to do.
Carle is in his own world, as ever, both here and far
away. He repeats himself, then covers his face and
groans. I am frozen, wishing hed talk about the laws
of motion, or tangential velocity, or action-reaction
forces in a collision. I have no idea what will come
next. Carle looks up, his eyes shot with red and
explosive veins, his lips downturned and gummy.
His hands with their spatula fingertips and hairy
knuckles rub the top of the podium ceaselessly.

Je ssi ca Ha h n




I thought 1 inch was 2, and 3 inches would be a kiss,
but it seems here
Ive found 2 inches to be 1 inch, and 3 inches to be a
There were French breads flowing from the front
door, Italian breads from the left window, and god
knows what kind of breads were coming out the
Eating my way in I found a small man with two eyes.
One was big and blue, and the other was jealously
gray and paler, and wandered out and about on its
own accord. Usually this street smells like soft
garbage and lemonade, but this morning, it smelt
particularly like hot dog water.
You say that in such strain. This is a nice bread
structure youve baked. Wheres
your eye going?
Are you not full?
In the process of conversation our stomachs had

become bow-tied together with the care of a third

grader. I cant get us out of this one, can you?
Ive never done it before.
Gripping from the belly buttons of both stomachs, I
yanked. The knot came undone. We stood naked. His
big blue eye fixed toward me, the other one out and
Ive kissed. But something about your belly button
makes me wonder if youve been kissed.
Of course, Ive been kissed. Dont you see my breads?!








These are things that happened before we were
together. The kinds of things youd keep after,
pressing me in that roundabout, hat-in-my-hand way
of yours. Doesnt it feel, I dont know, unnatural to
me? You projected such indifference I knew our whole
relationship was like that: a projection. An act. Like
the first night I followed you into your apartment,
and you were so nervous you dropped your keys
in the hallway. You smiled like Aw Shucks before
bending down to scoop them up, spinning them on
your fingers like some sort of cowboy. American boy.
Gunslinger. I bet you really thought you shot me
down, like your bullet had my name on it.
No one ever says I want to be a cockroach. Its an LA
thing. You just wake up one morning a cockroach.
It went like this: little girl, big dream, bus ticket. I
liked the window seat. I pressed my face against
the glass, giving testimony to every long shadow on
the landscape. I kept a ragged map in my pocket. I

wrote my name in the bathroom of each truck stop

between home and California, my fingers smelling
like felt markers.
You told me that was poetic. You daisy-chained
metaphors, odes to what you called my lovely nuances,
and read them aloud to friends. You the poet, me the
budding actress. But only a background actor, really:
a cockroach.
You held me close then and I felt your breath. You
stroked the tattoo on my shoulder. The cockroaches
will outlast us all, you said. As if poetry could fix
I stayed in an apartment above a bar. I had no
car, no phoneonly a canvas bag of slugs for the
payphone downstairs, a few loose singles to bum
rides to casting calls. My roommate called herself
Valentine, said it was her for real real name, but she
was a cockroach, too, so she was probably lying.
Her story was similar to mine: girl, dream, ticket.
Except shed landed a couple of speaking parts, some
line work to rehearse while the rest of us pretended
to eat our Cobb salads and hoped for a SAG card.
Valentine had a muscle car, an old Mustang the color
of mayonnaise, eggshell interior. We rode around
togetherpicnics in Culver City, bottles of burgundy
in the trunk. She wore poom poom shorts and cat

eye frames. I wore an ascot and made faces in the rear

view: sultry lips, pouty lips, all the lips in my bag. I
pretended I was Holly Golightly, or Audrey Hepburn,
really, and if not Audrey herself, someone who looked
okay standing behind her. Just another pretty roach
on 57th and 5th, the Tiffanys storefront window.
We drove fast and made believe the world was smaller
than it was. Like we could fit it all behind us. We
were fueled by something, an ancient thing that
charged our angst.
Valentine said it was the red wine. She said it was
She had other friends, too: women who smoked
Newports to the filter and stuffed their ankles into
pale blue Crocs; dancers squirreling money away and
never making any pretense about night school, finals
week; women whose indifference was earned, worn
like a second skin, and not just a projection.
And this was the essence of us: we were poor and we
knew it.
One morning, Valentine smashed the ceramic cookie
jar we kept over the fridge. Mostly copper coins,
some silver. I was at the kitchen table, harvesting
marshmallows from my cereal.

Dani e l Ri ddle Rodri gu e z


Alright friend, she said. Tough love time. Were out

of cash and favies and parties to ask them from. But
were young and were beautiful in the youngest,
most beautiful town in the world.
Valentine called it our silver lining, the fact we were
born women.
It does more than move velvet ropes, she said. Our
silver lining makes magic happen. Valentine lit a
cigarette and spread our bills out on the table. Past
due. Remit soon. She said: Want to make these
Every day for ten days Valentine taught me her
disappearing act. We shoved her box spring into the
corner to make space for the brass pole. Her room
was a makeshift stage. Bottles of bronzer on her
vanity, bottles of dye.
She taught me how to climb the pole, how to invert
myself. There were names for the things she taught
me, animals mostly: the Firefly Spin, the Bees Knees.
Remember, she said, the pole is a prop, not a dance
partner. Its like one big dildo all the little dildos fuck
you with by proxy.
The little dildos? I said.
All the guys in the room, silly, she said. Just keep your
snatch on the brass and youll be fine.

So everyday for ten days I kept my snatch on the

I told myself I was fine.
I told you about my first night. The club was full
peopled with silhouettes in trucker hats, mustachioed
mena hither and thither scatter of bravado and
loose bills. It felt like hell would feel. Like some
wobble bass purgatory, every lost soul waiting for
deliveranceor really just a blowjob, a mound of
hair to lock their teeth onto. I locked myself in the
bathroom stall and lifted my feet up, thinking: I want
to make these disappear.
Valentine found me in the stall, but I doubt she had
to look hard. She came prepared. I held the martini
glass while she crushed two pills into powder and
sprinkled it over the drink like some kind of garnish.
Abracadabra, she said, whisking me away. I want you
to meet someone.
He was a regular. An old man. Pockmarks on his face,
dreadlocks like a portion of spaghetti on his head. He
had gold fronts and every dollar he pressed against me
put my skin into quarantineor maybe something
less tangible, even, like my soul.
He smelled like lavender tonic.
Dani e l Ri ddle Rodri gu e z


He smelled like pomade.

He smelled like wildness distilled into tiny bottles
and sold in all those ethnic storefronts you see out
the transit bus window. Did you never see them,
poet? Those times you stared out the glass like there
was something only you could see. Werent you ever
really looking? The wild things all around us.
We found a private booth.
I wore the mans money on my hips.
I traced his pockmarks with my fingers and when he
climbed on top of me it seemed like Mother Nature
herself were vindicated.
My second skin earned.
I told you these things and you cried in that way
people cry when other people are watching.
There are times people ask me about me. I smile
and tell them about cockroaches. I tell them they
cannot be drowned, frozen or starved. That they sense
danger. I tell them they werent put here to outlast
everythinggod didnt make apples just to drop them
on your head, after allbut they will.


Its like that time we signed you up for that open

mic downtown. And you were mad because you had
to follow the feminist poeta pixie-cut barista, her
notebook dense with girl power. (Sapphic ballbusters,
you called them.) There was a tattered couch in the
corner, Turkish grounds on the floor. I sat next to a
guy with a hobo bag and a lapdog. While you were
reading, he leaned in and whispered in my ear. Hes
talking about you, right?
Not me, I said, taking his Papillion into my arms. Just
my nuances.
Your nuances?
Only the lovely ones.
We pet his lapdog together while you compared my
loveliness to a summers day, a springtime shrub. Her
loveliness is a springtime shrub, you said.
The Papillion licked my fingers. Its owner asked me
who my favorite president was.
All the dead ones, I said.
We locked ourselves in a bathroom stall. His dog,
perched on the toilet tank, watched us. The man
didnt speak. He tore at my skirt. He hanged my
panties on the coat hook.

Dani e l Ri ddle Rodri gu e z


When it was over I watched him zip up, hawk phlegm

onto the tile.
Did you know some roaches mate for life? I told him,
lighting a cigarette. They just stay pregnant forever.
Did you know that?
If the man knew, he didnt say, just gathered the Papillion in his arms, pressed a bill into my hand, and left.
I sat on the toilet bowl and held my feet in the air.
I heard the sound of snapping fingers and knew you
were waiting for me.
I closed my eyes and imagined I could wait there
forever. I would sit and molt until my dead skin
formed piles around me, until the piles grew so large
the world would be tiny in comparison, infinitesimal.
I would take the world then and leash it, and it would
put up such little resistance it could hardly be said
to have resisted at all. The world would finally know
who owned it. It would know all about it.
I opened my eyes and flushed the cigarette down the
I put my panties in my purse and went back out to
I was fine.



Left for days trapped in white sheets
surround us with your family in a very soft
vacation bed is too clean and reaching your
body I want to manifest at the tips of my
fingers are addressed to you melting while
on the coastline we wont get any of this
expensive shit dirty because its a test so
theres a lot of money here we cant fail to
see the passive aggressive friends of the
family always willing to do the favor of the
patriarch in the upstairs room the men are
silent while the women take care of the
businesses we dont want to grasp rolling
over with a pillow suffocating in comfort
your mother is absent and we need better
boundaries in silence on the public transit
trains ride through our home stripped bare
landscapes fade until the windows turn
black and the opacity becomes reflective of
the other passengers sharing this fluorescent
lit space works in a five year old boy with
the throaty laugh of a large and negligent
father we are forced to confront ourselves in
this new context you turn to me and say its
only the cabin pressure that lets you

maintain your shape while you move

between states and eventually return home
where everyone is planning a death I say
there are a lot of single mothers on this train
ride you need better boundaries you cant go
home you cant go home you CANT go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home you cant go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home you cant go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home you cant go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home you cant go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home you cant go
home you cant go home you cant go home
you cant go home you cant go home you
cant go home you cant go home you cant
go home you cant go home.

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tupelo hassman

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