Kristopher William Locke

INNER INQUIRIES

OPTION 1:

We discuss

fourth chakra primaries

Where the Maybes

meet the Possiblies

Greetings on the same side

of the—sand line—

Minus the me / hers / his

my / mines

Ideas clacking like hooves

at some bourboned derby

Halos of the ultimate spinning

like holy frisbees

Positivity streams

rushing through

the streets of our

inner cities

Sweetening the bitters with a litter of letters

peeling back the circused layers

Until all that is left are citrused sun-kissed pinky swears

OPTION 2:

I take a hammer to it all

Alan Catlin

The Other Side of Nowhere New York

She spent her time between
Long Island and Paradise and
he divided his between New York
and Never Never Land, their primary
functions in life: clubbing, texting,
doping and screwing, often all at
the same time, like performers in
a new kind of Wild Wild West Show
on the Lower East Side of a depleted
ozone layer in their brains curdling like
milk left in the sun so long the smell
was just this side of Johnny Rotten three
days dead and unattended, a rankness
that went unnoticed by everyone that
they came in contact with, all suffering,
as they were, from the same kind of disease
of inattention and excess, all claiming
to know the real story of what happened
with Syd and Nancy, how the body double
died and the happy couple escaped upstate
to do time in the foothills of the Adirondacks
and the Twilight Zone.

Ben Newell

 

drug story cover

Low Rent Less Than Zero: u.v. ray’s drug story

Imagine Bret Easton Ellis’s debut taking place in the early 90s, narrated by drug dealer Rip (albeit a philosophical, much less moneyed Rip), and set in Birmingham City, England as opposed to Los Angeles for an approximation of u.v. ray’s latest novel from Murder Slim Press. Rendered with the author’s trademark disregard for punctuation, drug story is an audaciously underground book in both content and style.

Narrator Mark Costine is an alienated young man who sells drugs at bars and nightclubs. He refuses to work a straight job as this would entail doing “sum thing i don’t give a flying fuck about.” On the surface he couldn’t care less about the big issues.

The narrative is a hedonistic romp interspersed with frequent arias in which Costine espouses his non-participatory ethos, attacking politics and capitalism with equal vehemence. Utterly disgusted with the mainstream, he opts for various escape routes. He drinks, takes drugs, sells drugs, has sex, and views a lot of porn on VHS. When he watches the news or reads a newspaper the stories are invariably grim, ranging from race riots to a “little piece about sum motherfucker called George Hennard in Texas who’s shot 23 people dead in a Killeen city restaurant.”

Costine lives in a flat above a “closed down an boarded up” restaurant. His druggie friends are named “Superfast” and “Electric.” When the former dies of an overdose, Electric and Costine shoot speed at their deceased pal’s wake.

Still, for all his jadedness and punk nihilism, Costine is an intensely passionate individual. He claims to not “give a fuck bout anything” but this doesn’t jibe with his many extended rants. He most definitelydoesgive a fuck. Otherwise, he wouldn’t spend so much time ruminating on what he sees as a sick society. A man of contradictions, he likes “man made things more than nature,” yet marvels at “undeniably beautiful” stars and a “beautiful sunrise of amber.”

Early in the novel Costine says he “never had anyone to share anything with, an never wanted no one either,” but the morning after having sex with ex-girlfriend Samantha he betrays his vulnerability: “. . . the following cold morning after she’s gone again her lipstick stain left on the wine glass sitting on the table next to the bed compounds my sense of loneliness. i feel utterly alone an empty . . .”

His need for female companionship is more than just sexual. Losing his mother to “a brain tumour” at the age of “6 months,” Costine spent his youth in a “care home” characterized by “imposing walls” and “gothic stone edifices that seemed cruel.” Of course drug-addled Amy and uni student Sam will never be able to fill that void, nor will the drugs and porn, but temporary relief is better than no relief at all: “we are the narcotic generation, the generation that finally found our escape.”

There’s a crime subplot concerning a bouncer who confiscates Costine’s product and is subsequently whacked in a drive-by shooting. This neo-noir element adds a sense of impending doom to the proceedings. Costine’s supplier, a one-eyed thug named “Slant Eye Joe,” is responsible for the hit; perhaps our narrator will be a marked man if he ever tries to leave the business. Not that this is likely to happen. As Costine states: “drugs are not the contagion. drugs are the antidote.”

ray has stated that this is his last novel. If this proves to be the case, then he has definitely exited on a strong note.

Jesse James Kennedy

Enough

“Cock-sucking, mother-fucking, low-life, PIECE OF SHIT SCUMBAGS!!!”

When the last echoes finish bouncing off the restroom walls, the only sound is that of my own breath. The rhythm of my heart seems slightly off and way too fast. Is this what a heart attack feels like?

I close my eyes and picture a blank white piece of paper. In the middle of the paper, big black numbers appear and disappear, first one, then two and so on up to twenty then back down to one. This usually calms me and slows my heart rate.

Of course, the meth has me so jacked as to pretty much rule out a normal heart rate.

But my rage does recede, and I decide I am not having a heart arrack. I open my eyes to see the stall door in front of me. I make the mistake of inhaling deeply through my nose. The stench of urine rapes my nostrils and penetrates my lungs.

I sneer at this minor degradation, the cherry on top of my shit-sundae of a life. This, this is the only place I can hide from their laughs and jokes and smirks. The smirks are the worst. That’s their way of saying I’m too stupid to know they think I’m a joke, just a fucking idiot, right? Laugh at the joke right to his face! Isn’t that it? You fucking shit balls! You low-life monkey-fuckers!

Blank piece of paper, one, two, three…

When I open my eyes this time, the gun is in my hand. Normally it fits nicely in the shoulder holster under my left arm, completely unnoticeable beneath my blazer. Suicide-silver .38 Smith & Wesson.

A lot of people will tell you bigger is better, so why not use a .45 or even .50 caliber? See, a large caliber will just punch a hole right through a body, which might sound good, but if you don’t hit a major organ, they still have a good chance of surviving. But a smaller caliber, like a .22, will ricochet of bone. So, if you can get it bouncing around inside the ribcage, that tiny bullet starts chewing holes right through lungs, heart, kidney etc.

The only reason I settled on a caliber as big as a .38 was so I could pierce their skulls. I want to pierce their skulls and splatter what little grey matter they have all over these fucking walls!

Blank paper, one, two, three…

I open my eyes, lay the .38 the metal toilet paper dispenser, pull out the vial of meth and tap out a generous bump. When I try to chop the stuff with the dull edge of my driver’s license, a big beautiful crystal shoots off to the side, ricochets off the stall wall and is lost forever somewhere in the pattern of the tile floor.

I lay my license down flat on top of the pile and crush it, then lower my head and suck it all up into my nostrils. There is a temporary rush, and for a moment, I feel contentment.

A moment later the rage returns.

Blank paper, one, two, three…

I put the .38 back in its holster, stand up and push the grimy stall door open. I walk over to the mirror and stare at the hideous face staring back at me. My sunken eyes and jutting cheekbones give me a preview of what my decaying corpse will soon look like. The tiny sore forming at the corner of my mouth, that is where the decomposition will start.

My gaze slides down my reflection to the tie around my neck. Fucking white collar noose. A leash, really, just to make sure you always remember your place. I grab the knot and yank it back and forth, sawing it into the back of my neck until it’s loose enough to pull over the top of my head. I toss it backwards over the stall door and hear a satisfying splash as it lands in the toilet behind me. Dress-code violation will never be an issue for me ever again.

I break eye contact with my corpse’s reflection and exit this stinking piss hole for the last time.

Making my way down the hallway to the classroom, a hard sniff breaks a crystal loose from somewhere inside my nasal cavity. I relish the bitterness as it slides down my throat, giving me an unexpected rush of euphoria just as the morning bell rings.

That fucking bell. One-part angry banshee, one-part nails on chalkboard, and one-part jack hammer to my brain. It drills through my ears and deep into my skull. It screams at me from inside my own head until I’m certain my brains will liquify and come squirting out my ears with the force of a firehose.

Then it stops.

I twist the door handle and enter the classroom. The students go silent the way they always do. I know the little fucks were talking about me. They may look like twelve-year-old cherubs, but every last one of them is a soul-sucking, black-hearted little gargoyle. Trust me, I know this.

I walk to the front of my desk, sit on its edge and survey the little rodents before me. I see Tina Bailey look over at Tommy Sullivan. They trade sly glances complete with barely suppressed smiles. ‘Thumbtack’ Tommy Sullivan. Where is it this time you little prick? On the floor by my chair where I’ll step on it? Stuck in the eraser where it will scratch up the chalkboard?

Or is it on my seat again? That’s it, isn’t it you little fuck? I sit down, it sinks into my bony ass, and all you little ass nuggets get to laugh at me again, right? Well not this time. Not this time and never again!

I get up, walk back over to the door, and turn the lock. There is a finality to the sound of the deadbolt slamming home.

Every step back to the front of the class feels lighter. It’s almost over.

The only thing left is my final and finest hour. A rare moment of satisfaction to cap off my shitty life.

Slipping my hand into my jacket pocket, I wrap my fingers around the gun’s grip in a way that almost feels sexual.

I do not think of a blank piece of paper.

I do not count to twenty this time.

Gwil James Thomas

An Extinction Poem,
Written After Waking
Early One Morning

Buried beneath
dinosaur wishbones
and the rubble
of empires,
grains of sand
move through an
ancient hourglass,
as the sky
turns blood red,
fruit flies fuck on
the ceiling
of a sultry
motel room,
watching
humans
breed beneath
them
while muttering –
great that’s all 
the world needs 
another human,
realising that
those words
will be lost in time,
as will these words
and all our words.

Have a nice day – 
I’m going back 
to sleep.

Matthew Licht

A Hard Case (Part 1)

My secretary fired me.

Detective stories usually begin: We’d been dry-humping on the couch in my office when my secretary said she wanted to be nude, all nude. But here we go instead: “You haven’t paid me in weeks. You haven’t had a new case in months. The cases you’ve got are stone cold dead. You’re the worst detective in world. You couldn’t detect stink in a garbage dump.”

She slammed the door so hard it broke the etched glass panel the last sign painter in town had recently enlivened with my agency’s logo.

The phone rang when I was about to call it a day. My secretary was gone. I answered.

“Sloane Investigations, Ned Sloane speaking.”

“You the D-d-divorce D-d-detective?”

Wanda, my former secretary, had placed an ad in the local paper. She’d gone to art school for a bit, and claimed her linked-D logo illustrated the concept that we specialize in divorce cases. Other investigators won’t touch them any more. “Sir, you either have a stammer or you’re a poor reader. I’m the Double-D Divorce Detective. I only handle cases where the unfaithful party is stacked. You got a case for me?”

“Oh boy, do I ever. My Doris—that is, she used to be my Doris—has big’uns. That’s how come we wound up together in the first place. Couldn’t keep my mitts offa her.”

Whoever was on the other end of the line was about to cry. A lost pair of big tits is tragic. I thought about my ex-secretary, Wanda. Private eyes are obliged to grope their girls Friday, but I’d never gotten grabby with her. Not much to grab. Just like my ex-wife. Meanwhile, the new client sobbed, sniffled and gasped.

“Pull yourself together, sir. So, you think your wife’s been unfaithful.”

“She might’ve been, but the thing is, she’s run away, with all our money. I mean, all my money!”

“Now that’s serious, Mister…”

“Frawley. Odom Frawley. Any chance you’d work this job pro bono? That means for free, doesn’t it?”

“Mr. Frawley, if you look at the ad’s fine print, it states that I work pro boner. Show me a snapshot of your wife, preferably nude. If she’s hot, I’ll take the case. For a hundred bucks a day, plus expenses.”

“That sounds awful cheap.”

“Hey whatever you say bud.”

Frawley said he had several of pictures of his wife with no clothes on.

Here’s one of them:

tits_peignoir DD-hst

A Hard Case (Part 2)

Nick Romeo

The Lifelines

The lines on the monitors flattened, while a single tone emitted from the machine drowning out the silence in the room.

“I’m afraid we did all that we could here.” The surgeon lowers his head to match the discouragement in his voice, “I wish we could have saved her.”

“I will notify her family.”

“Thank you, Nurse Venugopal.”

After the team finished pulling the last tube and wire from the patient’s body, a thick layer of fog formed at their feet. As the surgeon, nurse, and staff looked around trying to assess the cause, the doors burst open. A tall man enters the room wearing a bright blue lab coat and a giant plastic mask in the form of a black and white cat head. He is accompanied by a woman wearing a red lab coat, an enormous papier-mâché dragon head, and dragon wings extending from her shoulders to the floor.

The man with the cat head speaks: “Hello doctors, nurses, and humanoids. I am DJ Cat-a-List, and this is my associate, Dragon Bones. We are here to help.”

Dragon Bones steps forward, holds up a double-ended fire stick, and launches a column of fire from her mouth, igniting both sides. She spins it rapidly in front of her. A group of men and women dressed in navy blue scrubs wearing plastic animal masks representing various species, which can be found in the backyards of southwestern Pennsylvania, rushes into the room. They surround the operating room personnel.

“We will be handling this from here,” DJ Cat-a-List shouts as he presses a button on his key fob. Two speakers descend from the ceiling and stop when they are centered about the patient’s ears. A mirror ball, strobe lights, and colored lasers forming geometric shapes on the walls also drop out of the ceiling.

“This is ridiculous, ” the lead surgeon announces. “I’m calling security.” He jumps to the cabinet in the corner and picks up the telephone receiver. “What? No dial tone?” He slams the phone down. “Mrs. Venugopal, can you make the call? I left my cell phone in the locker.”

She checks her phone, “It doesn’t look like I have service.” She repeatedly taps and presses on the screen. “It’s not working.”

One by one, the staff confirm that their phones are also inoperable, as a table rises from the floor in front of DJ Cat-a-List. A row of music-mixing equipment covers the table.

“Does anyone realize there is a dead body in this room?” the surgeon pleads. “We have to notify the family. What are you doing? This is insane. Stop it! Stop this right now.”

Dragon Bones pushes the surgeon down into a chair. “Sit. It’s not like we can possibly do any worse than you.” She turns around to address the flock of people with animal masks and hospital uniforms. “Places, everyone.”

The animal people crawl to various spots in the room. Some take up positions on top of the cabinets, others stand on the available tables and chairs. They begin to sway in harmony to the low rhythmic bass sounds now emanating from the speakers. DJ Cat-a-List has one side of the earphones pressed to one of his cat ears as he bobs his head to the beat. The music gets louder.

Dragon Bones jumps onto the gurney, standing directly over the deceased patient. She points to the surgery staff who are now huddled in a corner with the surgeon, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Raise your hands in the aiiiiiiiiir! SWAY to DJ Cat-aaaaaa-Liiiiiiiiiiiist!”

The staff obey the orders of Dragon Bones, even taking it a step further by moving their bodies to the music, all except the surgeon, who now has his arms tightly folded across his chest.

“Stop listening to this crazy lady.”

“Let’s just get through this. Maybe one of us can sneak away when they aren’t looking and call for help,” Nurse Venugopal whispers, grabbing the surgeon’s arms and trying to raise them in the air as instructed.

“That’s right yinz. This is a celebration… a celebration of LIFE,” DragonBones shouts.

With that cue, the music gets even louder, pumping melodic piano synth sequences at a pace double the speed of a human heartbeat. She points to the swaying mass of staff.

“That’s right, I wanna see you MOVE.”

She swings her fire sticks around her head and behind her back while dancing in place over the lifeless body. The cadaver moves each time Dragon Bones energetically lifts and lowers her feet on the table.

The music continues to get louder. The basslines rattle the cabinet doors, pulsing along the fog-covered floor. The lasers flicker and bounce with the beat.

The surgeon remains dead still, hands cupped over his ears.

“C’mon doctor, have some fun,” Nurse Venugopal shouts as she tries to reposition the surgeon’s hands. “Just do what they say so we can escape!”

“This is terrible. I will see everyone arrested for this!”

Dragon Bones jumps off the gurney and rushes toward the surgeon, twirling her fire stick. The masked animal dancers continue their moves with the upmost choreographed precision. Dragon Bones stands within a foot on the surgeon’s lap and bends down so that her dragon eyes are level with his own.

“You don’t want to dance? Well, what do you want to do? This is life. Now savor it.”

She flails her arms and legs even faster, spinning the fire stick, carving paths through the dark, foggy room. Plumes of smoke trail from the speed of her movements. The staff circle around Dragon Bones, sharing the moment and dancing along with her. The surgeon squirms in an effort to keep his distance from them.

“I have never seen anything this horrible in my life. This is disgusting!”

Dragon Bones stops dancing and signals the staff to stop as well. She again turns to face the surgeon.

She points her fire stick at him. “This is not ‘ridiculous.’ This is not ‘disgusting.’ THIS IS LIFE!”

She positions the fire stick in front of her mouth and spews an enormous plume of flame, brightening the room with an intense orange glow. The staff and surgeon shield their faces from its burning light.

When their eyes clear, they find the room is empty. No colorful people wearing animal masks, no party lights, no speakers or DJ equipment. Even the fog has disappeared.

“Nurse Venugopal, what is going on here?” the surgeon says, finally getting out of his chair. “Is everyone alright?”

They nod and confirm that they are fine. “Surgeon, are you okay?”

“Yes, Nurse Venugopal, I am… Nurse Venugopal… our patient.”

The surgeon rushes over to the body on the gurney. The staff huddle behind him and the nurse.

“Look. Nurse,” the surgeon says, pointing to the patient’s leg. “It’s moving…”

The patient sits up, blinks a few times, yawns and looks around the room, “Where am I?”

A member of the medical staff screams.

“I can’t believe it…” the surgeon mutters.

“We’re so happy to see you recover, but please don’t move too much or too quickly,” Nurse Venugopal interjects. “You were in pretty bad shape for a moment there. We thought you were…”

“Really? Well… I’m thirsty…”

“I think you should stay for a few tests,” the surgeon says “Don’t you agree, nurse?”

The surgeon’s eyes are still bulging out of his head, but he is trying to keep calm. Maybe the vibrations shook apart the remaining tumors, he thinks. Maybe they somehow defibrillated her heart.

Nurse Venugopal says, “Why don’t we give her a minute?” She places her hand on the patient’s shoulder, “Let me get you some water.”

One of the staff members nods and walks toward the door, but before he reaches the threshold, the door bursts open. A man and woman march into the room wearing full surgical gear with their faces covered. The man speaks first.

“Hello friends, we’ll take it from here.”

He had a shaky, high-pitched voice. The woman waved, and her eyes squinted in a congenial expression.

“And who are you?” the surgeon demands to know.

“Ah yes, we were just assigned to the case. I am Doctor Katnik, and this is my assistant Nurse Bonecki. Here are our documents.” He unfolds a batch of papers and hands them to the surgeon.

The surgeon flips through a few pages. “Well, this looks okay, I guess. I wonder why haven’t I heard of this before? I have never seen a change in staff in this particular situation.”

Nurse Venugopal looks at the papers as well.

The high-pitched doctor says, “No problem. It happens all the time.” He waves his hand and the female assistant steps to the side. A group of orderlies walk through the door, surround the patient, kick out the wheel locks on the operating gurney, and begin moving her out the door.

“Hey!” the surgeon shouts.

The high-pitched doctor turns around along with his masked assistant. “Yes?”

Meanwhile, the staff continues to wheel the patient out the door.

“Miss, you really shouldn’t smoke,” the surgeon says the high-pitched doctor’s assistant. “No offense, but I detect a really strong smoky odor. I try to tell all my fellow heath care professionals.”

“No offense taken,” she says, sniffing her uniform. “I stopped as of a few minutes ago. I promise.”

“Sorry,” the high-pitched doctor continues. “We have to go. Her mother, brother, and sister will be so happy to see her.”

And with that, he turns and follows the rest of the group out the door.

“Well, Nurse Venugopal,” the surgeon says, waving goodbye to the exiting group. “He certainly had a strange voice, didn’t he!”

Alan Catlin

Screaming Orgasm

For a double sawbuck she’ll be
a good listener, someone pleasant
to have a cocktail with in dark, barely
lit lounge, might even pretend to care
what is being said and maybe offer a
kiss goodnight.

For half a yard, she’ll pretend
the Ladies is a tomb in winter with
a door that can be latched. Perform
guarantee-to-make-you-smile
services no matter how insistent
pleas to open up are.

For a hundred, your car or mine, is
on offer. Fold down seat action a
Go: choose your parking lot, secluded
spot.

For half a grand, you can have it all:
the whole Chinese menu from Column
A all the way to Column Z, plus
breakfast in bed or out of, and hot coffee
too.

Says she took acting lessons from a
life master, Christy Canyon, who
taught her everything a girl needs
to know to get ahead in The Life.

Has aspiration’s to play Vegas on her
back. After that, the sky’s the limit.

Matthew Licht

Vodka Deodorant

The woman in the fake leather suit looked exhausted. She had anemia or a timid form of albinism, accentuated by heavy makeup around her pale eyes. She stared at the supermarket cash register’s conveyor belt as it rolled. 

The girl who rang up my generic tomatoes, no-logo UHT milk, bargain-brand yogurt and sawdust-vaseline breakfast biscuits held grimly to a punk look. 

The guy who rang up the skinny pale woman’s purchases attempted a pick-up line. He plucked his eyebrows. Gym muscles bulged under his supermarket smock.

Maybe she didn’t understand Italian.

He didn’t have time to try again, in another language. Her shopping list would’ve fit on a defunct communist country’s postage stamp. Vodka and deodorant slid by, registered, clunked into the stainless steel merchandise holding pen. She refused the offer of a shopping bag for an additional six Euro-cents. She put the vibrator-shaped deodorant applicator in her pocket, grabbed the bottle by the neck.

She didn’t smash me with it when I asked to walk her home. Maybe she didn’t understand German. Don’t know why I thought she might. 

I didn’t offer to carry her bargain-brand bottle. She’d have thought I planned to steal it. 

On the way out of the supermarket’s glare, we walked past lost-looking old folks taking advantage of free unnatural warmth. 

Heat was included with the rent in New York, as was hot water. Felt like warmth and personal hygiene were free.

The generic neighborhood was identifiable only by streets named for pre-European Union countries. Maybe she caught the irony of winding up on Soviet Union Street. Maybe irony was a luxury concept she didn’t understand. Spike heels hobbled her wiggle along the crumbling sidewalk. 

Vodka was a problem in the former USSR. Dictators launched USA-style prohibition, restrictive rationing, scorched-earth surtaxes. Soviet drunks turned home-brewed beer into instant vodka with a dash of mosquito repellent. They slathered shoe polish on rye bread and left it on the radiator for delirious LSD-like trips. I asked her if she mixed generic deodorant and no-logo vodka for a narcotic effect.

Vodka was to drink, she said. Deodorant was for stink. I asked if she was a prostitute. She nodded and said I was one too, as if I didn’t know.

“Look, I’ve got some food in my backpack,” I said. “Let me make you dinner. Nothing fancy. No-Logo spaghetti, but it tastes pretty good.”

She wasn’t sure she had a spaghetti pot. She’d rented a room in an apartment from people she barely knew, but hadn’t inspected the kitchen cabinets. She didn’t say no.

Cheap euro-architecture guarantees maximum winter cold. Construction speculators were mobbed up with gas-heater factories, and the natural gas and oil industries. Her place was warm. Her former-Soviet Union flat-mates stole heat from somewhere.

She took off her jacket, released an alcoholic reek as faint as a capped bottle of evil perfume waved slowly under the nose.

Her armpit-hair was the color of straw. She sat on a rickety chair to watch. No chopping block. No spaghetti pot. No can-opener, but that was no problem because generic tomato-pulp cans have futuristic pop-top tabs these days. Dull little knife couldn’t peel an apple. Luckily, bargain brand tuna cans are packed with enough low-grade olive oil to lubricate a sauce. She pulled a loose no-logo cigarette from her purse, bumped me aside to light up at the stovetop. That was as close as she ever got to cooking.

Someone else was in the apartment. This phantom presences manifested different tobacco smells, muffled burps, sighs, wheezes. TV drone oozed through the thin walls. Human breezes moved scorch-marked curtains. Behind them, dirty windows faced a cement courtyard crowded with junked motor-scooter parts, corroded metal garbage bins. A cat prowled across the scene, evicted or escaped from some similar desolation. An invisible dead cat looked smug under a fogged plastic sheet.

“Where you from?”

She had to think. Wasn’t used to direct questions. More accustomed to evasive action when direct questions were asked. Where you from what’re you doing here where’s your entry visa and residence permit? But immigration cops don’t offer free spaghetti. She was from an unpronounceable war-torn town in Kosovo. She politely repeated her name, but I couldn’t imitate the sounds. She didn’t ask who I was or where I was from or what I was doing. She thought she knew what I wanted. In other words, same as everyone. But she was wrong. Unless the shower worked. 

And money’s been a problem since the dirty magazine biz tanked. 

Being dirty is no longer a viable commercial asset. 

She frisked my knapsack, found the bargain chocolate, had dessert before the starch course. She was missing molars. Ashtrays of premature death breezed through her pale lips.

Dinner was payment enough for what she had to offer. We hit the shower first. Practically had to demonstrate the proper use of bargain brand soap and dental floss. We toweled off in the low-consumption neon-bulb mist.

“Get the deodorant you bought. Bring the vodka too.” 

She went.

Hot water accentuates alcoholic buzz. Maybe I took a swig of deodorant after she slathered her armpits. The stuff foamed like shampoo, tasted about the same. I remembered the cheapo razors among my recent supermarket purchases. I still shaved, occasionally. So I left her under a stream of hot water and tromped to the kitchen. 

Bumped into another woman in the dark hallway. She smelled like she was from Bukovina, or Bucharest, Burkina Faso, Montenegro, Sierra Leone, Bophuthatswana. Human flotsam status cuts through and across geo-political boundaries. She walked around without light due to inflated electric bills, or else she was so stoned that low-watt neon hurt her eyes. She flinched when she lurched into a stranger. 

I returned to the bathroom.

She was staring at the medicine cabinet over the sink. Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing? Why am I alive? Clouded mirrors don’t reflect answers to such easy questions. The tile floor was slippery. The cold outside the bathroom window wanted in, and was making headway. She came back into the shower unquestioningly. I shaved with deodorant foam. She shaved her legs to fully exploit the free razor. 

Mouldy towels, unmade stale bed. The window in her room had a rolling metal shutter, stuck in the down position for complete blackout. She kept up her zombie act until I spoke. Can’t remember what I said. Normal phrases from everyday human intercourse in a language not her own. 

Humping drunks who mutter words she didn’t understand must’ve been an overly familiar unpleasant situation. 

She didn’t go berserk in the usual manner. She unleashed an inbred reverse-pheromone bio-weapon. I went limp and rolled away.

She lit a cigarette butt stashed between the lumpy mattress and the floor. Lime-green no-logo lighter, the kind sold by roving Africans, flash-lit a room filled with empty bottles. She held fire like Lady Liberty, scrounge-searched for a phallic deodorant applicator that still had some of the whitish liquid inside, rolled it under her arms. Vodka bottles and deodorant bottles hugged the walls in disorderly rows,  stood crowded in the corners, lay scattered on the dirty floor and ugly furniture. Two bottles a day keeps the undertaker away.

But not forever.

Who undertakes the removal of deceased illegal immigrants? Unaccounted corpses, stuffed in weighted logo-stamped supermarket bags, dumped in the river. Garbage-dump fires, distorted reflections of pyres by the Ganges, illuminate unattended non-ritual funerals. Only the river complains, to deaf imaginary ears. Dogs and contaminated carp get fat on the heels of dead dictators.

I zipped back into the mildewed bathroom, pulled on my damp clothes fast. Money was missing from my pants, but the thieving gypsy woman in the hall had left the documents and house keys. No use stealing keys unless they lead to quick burglary or auto theft. The address printed on my expired driver’s license is half a world away.

Casey Renee Kiser

Shed

Peeking into my soul
from Oblivion—
I didn’t mind the peeking so much
as the mask

Identity theft at its finest
Fooled me for a while
maybe because
I was desperate to be fooled
Ain’t it funny how poets
got that primal need
to cram as many roles as possible
into one lifetime
to see the show from each and every seat
in the theater
We are born restless and on fire

So  now,
as you’re looking in the window,
dying to wear my skin—
wear away darling
It’s lying there just for you

And I’m long gone