Adderall

fling

your hues

from the second

storey

burn some

misery

rigid, wasp

skin

the ugly

ramble

of

nose-speak

evening out

until

some asswipe

calls night-sweats

handsome

and sucks

your masculinity

into

manicured

piles

of

Kleenex

and

useless arteries

Klonopin

You sliding

Plexiglass:

a perfect
Easy-Bake image

Your

hair

in thick

strands

for commercial

use

by the caterer’s

niece

uptight

tension buttons

shimmering

behind

the kitchen

island

gutted

walls give

way

to loose

grass

an endless

flow

pale guts

hidden

You visualize

this

new cavern

another

in

your

collection

of stalagmite

jaws

reluctant

child

blonde

orthodoxy

thousands of

smartphone

flashes in

the

poolhouse

(this hurt

is moot)

the worst failure would be to stop swimming

My review of Mark Anthony Cronin's debut collection, Gigantic Failures, is up at The Small Press Book Review.

Just as the system relies upon our compliance, it similarly relies upon monsters to instantiate the repercussions of transgression. A shadow serving to validate our commitment. Some, however, desire to become their shadows. Monsters, too, often embody desirability, because they enjoy the freedom to say yes. Yes, I will take what I want. Yes, I will treat anyone or anything however I desire to treat it. The monster represents a kind of total freedom that threatens the stability of society. The monster represents anarchy. Self-government. Autonomy. The monster incarnates freedom, a horrifying concept to those who base their identity on a set of rules meant to corral liberty in favor of stability.

-- Christopher Higgs, Becoming Monster

bleed it does

My review of John Dermot Woods' Activities is up at The Small Press Book Review.

Benadryl

un-lotioned

hands

dig

the bottom

kindled

and tampons

turn

clockwise

the rhythm

of the trickle

as scalloped

text message

light

raids the devil

face

we drew

in the

flat-screen

dust

and

you waited

to know

how
all my

mornings

begin

The Only Thing(s) to Fear

There's a review of Monkeytown in The Brooklyn Rail this month. Thanks to Stephen Cicerelli for his kind words. Also, thanks to the Rail.

My cholesterol is still excellent...

"Golden Age" is up at Stat®rec.

where clergy fight death-duels

I review Brian Allen Carr's excellent novella Edie & the Low-Hung Hands at the Small Press Book Review.

A fairly uneventful shift on the door until an attractive young lady with bangs dyed fire-engine red comes outside to smoke, accosts me and apropos of nothing tells me that she doesn't have any American girlfriends (she arrived with 3 French friends) because American women are spoiled and conditioned -- partly because of their male counterparts and partly because of technology/"the media" -- to be less independent and to "get whatever they want handed to them" even though most of them have no idea what they want (another symptom of technological dependence); that she could survive alone on an island for five days if provided a lighter; that she was born in Israel and because of this is automatically more independent, something she has been since age 16 even though her mother and father are akin to Israeli celebrities in the fields of medicine and science, respectively; that she wants to pull aside label-conscious women in the subway and tell them that if they shopped at "lower-end" places like Zara and focused more on color coordination and what looks good on them instead of "unfortunate Louis Vuitton bags" they might attain a greater state of happiness; that she makes "nice money" and owns a vintage Chanel bag because it's vintage and therefore acceptable; that she has lived in NYC for seven years and had an abortion the first year; that minorities are inherently bad parents; that she works in the "diamond industry" and if i mention her name (which she has not offered) to any respectable person affiliated with said industry they will attest to her success and "people skills"; that she is dyslexic and suffers from ADD which made college difficult and resulted in a short-term inferiority complex; that she knows I might not be enjoying listening to her but that she is confident that through her banter she has made me think about things I never would have otherwise considered and in this way she feels fulfilled; that her parents disinherited her when she started dating her non-Jewish French boyfriend. At this point her boyfriend and the two other French people they came into the bar with come outside and her boyfriend gleefully shouts that he's won a bet because she is talking to the doorman, then turns to his friends and jokingly says something that includes the word "salope" which if you know French is a pretty naughty word for a lady. As they light cigarettes and continue talking she bends over and whispers "Thanks for listening" before sticking her tongue deep into my ear and briefly wriggles it around in a manner that can best be compared to the burrowing eel of planet Ceti Alpha V that burrows into Mr. Chekov's brain in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. At this point, I haven't said a word longer than "Uh."

ear to the street

New review of Monkeytown is at The Small Press Book Review. Thanks Ben and Mel.

The opening of lips, the disappearing.

"C-Bomb" is a short story and it is up at The Fat City Review.

tuesday com(mute)

Truth: French bulldog ownership increases the likelihood of eventual intercourse for the average American male. Smoothes the road, so to speak. 

You pass an average American male/French bulldog owner who is being accosted by two much younger, college-aged products of healthy Midwestern upbringings and Urban Outfitters’ tank top section and acknowledge that he is breathing proof of this truth. He is a late-20s finance bro in athletic shorts featuring the logo of a small, northern college and loafers/nautical shoes because it is his day off and he wants you to know he is ready for his day off. He is ready to traverse a variety of terrains because in his day exists the possibility for adventure.

And it is not your day off. It will never be your day off. Sheeeeit.

He is aw-shucksing and saying to the slightly-less-attractive-but-still-desirable girl, “I was looking into getting a rescue but come on loo-ook at this little guy,” while not casually staring at her more attractive counterpart (who is bent over petting the slobbering item of interest) in a way that suggests he never considered a rescue dog and that most or all of his canine research was aimed at orchestrating this exact experience.

He has maximized his investment.

He knows the over/under.

Through his iPhone research he knows that the present-day Frenchie stud, due to years of inbreeding, cannot reproduce naturally, his narrow hips unable to properly mount the bitch, who in turn (because of those same hips) is virtually incapable of natural birthing and almost always requires a caesarian section to extract her litter.

It’s possible he sees the irony in procuring sex with the help of what is in essence the living, shitting product of a centuries-long laboratory experiment, sexless in all but its ill-aligned anatomy. A sterile accessory.  It’s possible he knows that his dog exudes this sterility, this pheromone of safety and hints of platonic beginnings, and that it is his greatest weapon. He’s a standup individual! He gets tested regularly!

The finance bro’s dog sniffs the oversized bag the bent-over girl has slung over her shoulder and starts to lift his leg. Ready to mark. She squeals cutely and stands up. 

Her friend laughs. 

His grin spreads like melanoma. 

Congratulations, brother.

gore porn

Very nice review of Monkeytown in the new issue of Prick of the Spindle. Much thanks to Matthew Miranda for his kind words.

 

He couldn't risk looking at himself

New flash piece "Marked" is up at Pure Slush.