Poetry

Sometimes I crave the taste of human flesh

But then I remember pie.

There are many types of legal pies to eat.

Apple.

Pumpkin.

Blueberry.

Cranberry.

People.

Did I say people?

I meant pecan.

Pecan… Pecan… Pe—

There are many types of legal pies to eat.

I just wish that all pies were legal.

Sex must have been so awkward during the holocaust...

"Honey, no, not tonight. Not until they let us shower."

The Darkest Sketch I've Written

Man: Hi honey, did you pick up the kids from— (doubling over in pain) Ahhhhh, my pancreas!

Voice: Feeling pain in your abdomen?

Man: Uh huh.

Voice: Are you especially weak or tired?

Man: That sounds like me.

Voice: You might have pancreatic cancer. Each year 32 thousand Americans are diagnosed with the condition.

Man: Is there some new treatment that I should talk to my doctor about?

Voice: No. You’re going to die.

Lights

EDIT: Karma... fuck me.

The Daredevil of Prospect Park

He sat on the stoop of his father’s brownstone eating Hellmann’s mayonnaise with a spoon. The spoon was from Dinosaur National Monument in Vernal, Utah; his family had road tripped through the west when he was six. The mayonnaise was from D’Agostino. He approached his task with rhythmic dedication, first removing a layer of mayonnaise from the jar half a teaspoon at a time, then letting his tongue flick itself around the egg white covered concavity until the embossed T-Rex reappeared. He would use the handle of the spoon to flatten what remained in the jar, before scraping the interior wall with the edge, clearing out any residue left by a given layer. He repeated this process until he was two thirds of the way through a jar and could no longer reach the mayonnaise easily, at which point he would wait for his father to finish the jar and purchase more.
His dad had gone up to Westchester to play a quick eighteen with the partners, and he was supposed to have hopped on the Manhattan bound B train when he woke up. His frame was slight, he did not look all of his thirteen years, and the mayonnaise habit was part of a larger scheme to make himself older by force. He did not shave the shadow of a mustache resting on his upper lip. He practiced furrowing his brow in front of his bathroom mirror, engraining wrinkles into his smooth forehead. He once dusted his hair with talcum powder before school, but that only started a lice scare.
He masturbated like a teenager. He froze individual frames of family films, some girl’s thong provocatively visible or a glimpse of cleavage, and spilled himself into his sheets after school, his mind focusing on implausible sex acts. He would experiment with tempo, duration, and architecture. He had a list of personal records (speed: thirteen seconds, quantity: 4 times in an hour, etc.) that he recorded on a piece of looseleaf, college ruled paper. When he had captured his data, he would fold the sheet seven times for security, and tuck it behind the ID card window in his LL Bean backpack. He took no pride in his accomplishments, though he suspected such data would apply nicely to future, hypothetical love making.
This morning, after an unremarkable masturbation session, he walked southwest towards Prospect Park. He knew boys who frequented the park, boys who were encouraged to play sports. They would gather at the soccer fields or baseball diamonds with their orange slices and Kudos bars. Shuttling between boroughs on the weekends left little time for organized athletics. He hadn’t been a member of a league since he was nine; he played soccer for the Terminator’s [sic], and his disinterest and sloth led his coach to slot him as backup goalie. His father forgot to register him the following year.
The athletic fields were on the way to his destination. His knowledge of his city was unimpeachable, as he had studied maps when he was first forced to navigate the New York underground as an undersized ten year old. On his laminated map of South Brooklyn there were three waterfalls: Binnen, Fallkill, and Ambergill. He was determined to see all three.
There would be a daredevil in a one piece swimsuit atop each of the falls, each of whom with his own barrel. The barrels were stocked with stunt necessities: granola bars, feather pillows, copies of pornographic magazines. Crowds of supporters dressed in turn-of-the-century garb would cheer these men’s collective daring. The daredevils would wave to the crowds pull their novelty sized goggles over their steely eyes. They would step into their barrels, clapping the lids on top of themselves in rhythm. Sealing themselves off from the world. And then? Someone would have to push the daredevils he supposed, but his fantasy petered out before any spectacular acts had been accomplished.
He decided to start out at the southern most point in the park’s waterway and work his way back up. He barreled past the Brooklyn Zoo. His mother frequently took him to the Zoo in Central Park, but he had never been to this one. His father had assured him that all the good animals were in Manhattan. He plowed through the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. He had no interest in flowers this afternoon. The May air was cold enough to suggest that summer might not come this year, and the chill propelled him towards his destination.
He moved west across the Terrace Bridge by the boathouse, up a bike path to the Binnen Falls’ viewing platform. He found himself alone. No crowd, no barrels. A small information plaque, bronze, had information on elevation (63 feet) and the history of the falls. They were not named for a Mr. Binnen, but instead after the Dutch word meaning within. He peered over the edge of the platform, to the river below. No one would take a barrel off these falls, as it would little qualify as a feat of daring.
He stared down to gauge the depth of the water below. He longed for a nautical breakdown of the park’s water, but figured that no cartographer would waste his time with Prospect Park. He could tell it was no more than a couple feet deep. As he stared down he let his eyes freeze on a rock sticking out of the spray. The falls had weathered the features of an elderly woman into the rocks.
No one noticed when he peeled off his beat up Adidas, middle school sweatshirt, white t-shirt, and Levi’s he had yet to grow into. No one noticed him walk slowly back from the railing, counting his steps as he had learned to do in his elementary school diving class. No one noticed when he sprinted forward, his bare feet pushing him high enough to clear the barrier. No one saw his dive towards the rocks below. When his wrists collided with the riverbed two feet below the surface of the water, his bones bent back, splintering. They wanted to burst through his skin. No one noticed as he stood upright and stepped onto that old lady’s chin.
Fifteen minutes would pass before a park ranger pulled him out of the water and called his mother. He did not hear the ranger chastise him. When his mother met him at the orthopedists, he would not stop grinning. His wrists would be set in matching black casts. His father was furious at his disobedience and worried this would be used against him by the boy’s mother. But that anger would dissipate soon after he noticed that his mayonnaise was no longer disappearing.

The Kidmedian

I’m smarter than ninety nine percent of the people I meet. There’s no hubris in that statement, nor is there any pride or ego. I just meet a lot of idiots. That may not be fair, just, or warranted. I suppose I should clarify; I meet a lot of children. Children sure are stupid.

Just last week I met this kid Tommy. His mom drops down the eighty dollar deposit on my services, and she tells me that he’s scared of clowns, so I shouldn’t do anything too clownish. (Notice how I used the proper form of (to/too/two) in that instance. Kids mess that stuff up all the time.) I tell her, “Look, lady, I don’t tell you not to wear, well, whatever it is that you’re wearing,” she was wearing something hideous, “so don’t tell me how to not be a clown.” I had her eighty bucks, so I figured I was in the clear. She made some comment about how I am not the one buying her clothes, so I sprayed seltzer in her face.

I guess at this point I should make it clear that I’m not a clown. I’m the guy that comes in when a clown isn’t right and magic is too scary. Or magic isn’t right and clowns are too scary. Some would call me a stand-up kidmedian, and those people are miserable. Seriously, I hope anyone who refers to me as a kidmedian gets liver cancer. Well, I guess I just alienated the liver cancer readers out there. Sorry. I hope you get better. Really. I do.

I have a thing that I do for the kids. I tell a couple jokes, get the kids going. “Knock knock,” I might say.

“Woof,” the kid will reply.

“What, you’re the one telling the joke now? You can’t even understand a simple knock knock joke. You’re supposed to say, ‘who’s there.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there? Wait… you say who’s there.”

“Who’s where?”

“You are so stupid. I can’t believe you’re nine. Could we get Mikey here a short bus, I mean honestly. Have you guys heard of the Special Olympics?”

Some other kid will usually pipe in with, “Is that the one with wheelchairs?”

“No, that’s the Paralympics, idiot.” That bit usually warms up a crowd.

So, anyway, I spray this woman with seltzer and she looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Are you crazy? I wasn’t telling you how not to be a clown. I don’t even know how I’d do that. I guess I’d start doing that by telling you not to spray seltzer in people’s faces.”

BAM! I hit her again with the spray. Wait, bam is not the right onomatopoeia. (Kids have no idea what onomatopoeia means.) Substitute Squspray for Bam, please.

So I Squspray her, and she’s furious now, all red faced like she doesn’t know what the word non-refundable means. “I know what the word non-refundable means, but I want my money back,” she squawks.

“Clearly you don’t know what non-refundable means because you want your money back.” If someone thinks that they can get their non-refundable deposit back because they get hit by the old “seltzer in the eye” gag, they clearly underestimate the severity of the word non-refundable.

“Look, fine, you came highly recommended, so I guess.” Cue the rules speech. “There are going to be some rules mister. No cursing. You don’t curse do you?” She must think I’m pretty stupid.

“Fuck no.”

“That’s a joke right?”

“Hell yes.”

“Ok. Just don’t spray seltzer on me.”

“Is that one of the rules? Or just a temporary guideline for the duration of—“

“Think of it as a rule.”

“Got it.” I mimed writing on a pad. “No seltzer and cursing.”

“What are you doing?”

“My brain only works if I pretend to write something down. Otherwise I can’t even pretend to remember it. And if you don’t want me cursing and seltzer…ing, well.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Well, don’t worry, it’s not true.”

She pretended not to hear me. “Don’t forget to close the side gate when you come in. We have this terrier.”

Everyone is so goddamn picky with their gates. God forbid the entertainment comes in through the front door, entryway, or vestibule.

“Thanks. I open lots of gates without closing them. Really.”

“You didn’t pretend to write that down.”

“Whoops.”

“Non-refundable?” She asked. I nodded. “Be there at three,” she sighed and left my place of business.

“You’re late,” Tommy’s mom said at four.

“Yup. Nice party hat.” She was wearing one of those cone things with the rubber band that goes under the chin. She looked ridiculous.

“Why are you late?”

I pretended not to hear her. My primary field of work is not lucrative enough to support my lifestyle, so I supplement with odd jobs. The night before Tommy’s party I was housesitting my buddy’s apartment. Naturally I was hungover and did not get out of bed until a quarter to four.

“Where do I set up?”

“We had to move up pin the tail on the donkey because of you.”

Parents say the dumbest things.

“Excuse me?”

“Pin the tail on the donkey. It was going to be at four, but we had to move it up to—”

I ripped the sunglasses I was apparently wearing off my bloodshot eyes. “Do you hear yourself? I bet you were cool once.”

“I’m still cool.”

“Are you?”

“What? I am. I am still cool.”

I am cooler than ninety nine percent of the people that I meet. I have come to realize that having children immediately makes you lame. People with children buy gazebos, go to PTA meetings, and drive cars with those hideous child safety seats in the back. They carry diaper bags, strap their kids to leashes, and smell vaguely of baby vomit. They aren’t at clubs, bars, or movie theatres, except when they are, which is even worse. People with children call me a kidmedian.

“Where do I set up?”

“By the… on the… next to the gazebo.” I had clearly rattled her, which was good: she probably hadn’t noticed that I didn’t close the gate.

I would love to recount in detail my act at Tommy’s party. It was good. The kids laughed, I got in a couple good jabs at the party hats, and there was an absolute minimum of clowning. The idiot kids totally missed the punchline of my Sirhan Sirhan bit, but that hasn’t played well in years.

After I closed my set I was sucking down a Turkish Gold by the gazebo when the cake came out. Tommy was turning eight, (well, actually he had turned eight on Thursday), and everyone was singing as the cake came out.

“And Scooby Doo on channel two!” some dumb kid belted out after the song.

“Hey mom,” Tommy said.

“Yes dear?”

“Where’s Scruffy.”

“I don’t—” Her eyes and mine immediately shot to the open side gate.

“Where is he? I want Scruffy to make a wish.”

“I don’t—We’ll find him. Just blow out the candles.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Is Scruffy okay?”

“We’ll find him.”

I was supposed to help some guy move, transport, or convey some boxes that evening. The job was worth forty bucks. But instead I was driving Tommy around in my beat up Trans Am tacking up signs. Dirty blonde hair reflected in the streetlight as he tacked his last sign up. “Lost: Brown Terrier goes by Scruffy. If found please call 845-807-6029.” And then the picture, the two of them playing on the gazebo. Stupid kid. Shouldn’t have gotten so attached.

From the Desk of G. Shaloub

This is the first in a new series of more dramatic posts.

She would have told him to stop futzing with the radio. He never knew if futzing was a slang term, or if it was, like so much else, a construct of her imagination. It was real, of course, but he assumed it was some false Yiddishism she tried to work into some screenplay only to have it removed by some executive who couldn’t write his way out of some box.

She would have told him to buckle up because it’s a goddamn law. He thought she picked the laws she cared about out of a hat. Like some judicial lottery: today we will be enforcing seatbelt violations, 2^nd degree manslaughter, and light treason! We won’t mention the half pound of pot in the freezer, the unlicensed pets, or the stolen cable. He thought it was an idiotic double-standard, except when he was rolling joints out of her stash.

She would have told him to relax at the moment of impact. Don’t let that hideous scraping sound tense you up. She would’ve thrown her arm out across his body to restrain him, so his cheeks would not be shredded by the windshield as it shattered on his skull. As he was ejected forward upon impact.

She would have howled loud enough to immobilize every car on every highway. Loud enough that her tar soaked lungs would have exploded inside her chest. Loud enough to drown out the tectonic shift that was his 8^th vertebra separating from his 9^th.

She sits beside him reading what she grabbed out of a box marked “Gary’s Books” in the attic. It was a great green room. Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall. Max went to bed without his supper. If you run away, I will run after you.

Look at me, I'm Samuel Beckett, Fuh Fuh Fuh

A couple stands in the corner of what may be a gallery. They are looking at the schematic of a 1997 Toyota Corolla posted upside down... or something else...

W: So

M: What?

W: Your turn

M: It’s

W: Yes

M: It’s a blending of pre and post proto ironic ideals

W: What is?

M: This

W: Oh

M: You don’t

W: Well

M: No, no, I

W: I just don’t

M: What?

W: I don’t want to pin it so firmly in a corner like that

M: But it’s in a corner

W: I

M: Sorry

W: No, no, it’s just that

M: You can’t see the ironic levels?

W: I do see, well, no, I don’t see levels per se

M: I don’t know, I see levels

W: That’s ok

M: Shit

W: No no, it’s ok

M: No, it’s not ok

W: It’s ok

M: NO, NO NO

W: Ok

M: I was so sure there were levels

W: There usually are

M: I know that

W: Don’t snap at me

M: Sorry

W: No, I’m sorry, you can

M: But I shouldn’t

W: Well no

M: Fuck

W: What?

M: I, again

W: No, stop, that’s not what this is about

M: Yes, there were, I

W: Levels?
M: Yes, both post and proto

W: and pre?

M: Yes, pre too

W: Well, I think your terms are ill-defined

M: How so?

W: Proto is pretty passé

M: No

W: I mean, it was, but now

M: Oh god, oh fuck god god fuck oh god

W: No, no, it’s fine,

M: GOD FUCK GOD

W: Please stop

M: FUCK FUCK FUCK GOD OH FUCK GOD OH OH GOD FUCK

W: There is a level

M: OH FUCK GOD

W: A LEVEL

M: Oh?

W: Sure

M: No?

W: Sure, because the proto is post

M: Well, yeah

W: Don’t act like you knew that

M: But I did

W: Explicitly?

M: Why?

W: What?

M: Why does it matter if my knowledge is explicated?

W: Because that is how you know

M: Explicitized

W: Stop it

M: But I did know, I said it, I said

W: Yes, but you didn’t know

M: I did

W: Did you?

M: Didn’t I?

W: I think, no, no no

M: Oh

W: Yeah

M: It sparkles your eyes

W: Please

M: Oh

W: Don’t

M: Sorry

W: You don’t have to be

M: But I am

W: Why?

M: Because now the dynamic is

W: Is?

M: Well, we were just looking, but now

W: Oh

M: Yeah

W: Huh

M: It does sparkle your eyes

W: I can’t see that

M: Well, no, you shouldn’t should?

W: I, no, eyes, no

M: It’s a message

W: There’s no message

M: No no, maybe that is

W: No

M: The message

W: No

M: Maybe, just

W: No

M: IT’S MY TURN

W: Oh, yeah. What is the message?

M: I don’t, can’t, I see

W: Oh

M: You don’t think

W: No

M: But if there is only the one level

W: I don’t know that there is

M: But you

W: I know I did, but

M: Fuck

W: What?

M: There aren’t are

W: No

M: But then there’s a

W: No

M: But if there aren’t levels

W: No

M: There has to be

W: NO

M: THERE HAS TO BE A MESSAGE, because there has to be something

W: No

M: Then nothing?

W: No

M: Then what?

W:

M: I wish you could see it sparkle your eyes