Postmodernmortem Fragments

Homeless Shelter

2012-03-02T10:12:00.002-07:00

Homeless shelter. I could have had fleas, but instead I have hives. Everything is about me. There is no deviation from the pain of existence. I remain consistent in my efforts to avoid writing about it. I don't write. I write nothing. I remain closed to my pain. I no longer have the same buffer against reality that I had when on drugs. I don't know anything anymore. I know nothing. That is all I can say. Even writing this is difficult, and it's not about anything. Listening to music hurts. Everything is a reminder of having had a home. I have nothing. I hate everyone who has abandoned me. I hate the world. A better way. This is where I am. The name is a euphemism. I have a typewriter in the corner, but I don't use it. I have no paper. I have no home. I have no cat. I have nothing. These words get me nowhere. I am nowhere. I have nothing. I can say this with all certainty though I know nothing. Nothing is certain. My neck hurts from bad pillows. I can't shower. I have hives. This is what I have. Hives. The kind induced by stress. I am allergic to stress. I am allergic to my life. I have nothing. My clothes are second-hand. My coat is a pimp coat. I went to New Jersey to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins. I wore a pimp coat there. It was embarrassing for me. I hate T. I hate my parents. I don't have enough money for anything. I have nothing to do. I am unable to work. I am unable to do anything. I can barely write barely. I I I I I. Everything is about me. The music I listen to makes sense to me, but I don't know why or how. Nothing is the only thing that makes sense to me. The void of existence, this having nothing. I am at a loss for words. I write out of necessity. There is no substance. There are women with children and lovers getting out of prison. They need to hide. A better way hides them. This is the undisclosed location. I met the taxi at a McDonald's. I was in the rain. Were you partyin', she asks. What? Partyin'? Partying? No. Were you workin'? No, I was sleeping. Someone woke me up from a bad nightmare. It wasn't a dream. I struggled to wake up. There was no other world to wake up to. I was amidst pure chaos. My whole being is called into question. I don't know who I am anymore. Maybe I never knew this. Maybe I was staving this off for years, this fate of mine. I don't know. I don't know anything. I only know the pain of nothingness, of having nothing, of being nothing, of writing nothing. I am the pain of not knowing or being anything. None of my old friends associate with me. I am loss. I am pain. I am nothing. I am the remainder of an odd subtraction of being and nothingness. Sartre didn't know anything either. I tried to kill myself twice. I thought I'd have been dead. Have been. I thought I'd get past this part. I thought I could get past the inevitable fate of the nightmare. I thought I could escape. I thought you were dead to me. Nothing self, you came back to me. She ain't shit, she says. She's nothing. I am nothing. I am not even shit. I don't exist on a map. I come from nowhere. I go nowhere. I have lost everything. I can't think of anything else. I am disgusted by myself but can't shower. I smell like a homeless person because I am homeless. There are mice running about here. No one has seen any in the sleeping rooms yet, yet being the operative word. Yet. Not yet. There are not mice in there yet, not in the room where you sleep. The children seem to have gotten used to me though. Two of them will call me by name now. Since I went to New Jersey. I am disoriented. I have a shelter cough. I have hives. These are things I have. I do not claim them as my own though because these claims mean inevitable loss. Maybe I should claim them as my own then. I claim shelter cough and hives. These things are mine. Do say rape as well. Rape. Don't say rape to T. Rape. The opposite of rape. Angel. She wants a distraction. Chooses the stripper over me. I want a distraction. I am the antithesis of possession. I am the antithesis of Angel. I have nothing and am nothing. I am the year of my birth. I am a newborn nothing. Sartre and Henry Miller were nothing. Chaucer was nothing. Nothing that existed exists now. The void of becoming. The apparent heir of nothingness. I am a newborn nothing. I repeat myself to save words. I am thrifty in my solipsism. I am alone in the mirror. I spell mirror in French. There is a remnant of my past. I would take you out with me. I would take you to the mirror and make you look at my puffy face next to yours. I would make us look at each other in the mirror until our faces turned blue like corpses. I would make you die with me, slowly and by part. First our faces would die together. Our extremities next. Our trunks last, and in our trunks the hearts finally. Not our hearts anymore, just the hearts. They come last. The hearts come last. There is nothing in the brains so they come first. We've been emptied of thought. We are death incarnate. We love ourselves despite death. We love our suicide attempts. We love you and hate you. We love nothing and hate nothing. We tried to asphyxiate ourselves with plastic bags taped around our necks. The suffocation was extreme. We stop ourselves from becoming. We are death. We are asphyxiated anyway, this time by existence. Life is a trap for death. There is only a wish for death. I try to stop myself from wishing for death, but I cannot wish for anything else. Death, yes. I want to come with you, into you. A lover for eternity, the rest of decomposition. I am everything and nothing. I am love and hate. I am nothing. I hate these words. I love these words. I hate and love everything. I hate Angel and T. I hate my parents and sometimes my brother. I hate them more than life itself. I hate life. I hate lists. I hate waiting for nothing. I am always waiting for nothing. I wait for nothing to end. There is no peace and death. I am forced alive by not killing myself well enough to die. I am a failure. I have failed to die successfully. I didn't take all the pills in one go. I should have taken more. I had them. What was I waiting for? Two goes. No discernable death, only a semblance of it in life, the mired existence that remains in the traumatic aftermath of failed suicide attempts. I am nothing. I breathe even though I tried not to. The asphyxiation was too much for me. Why do I hate my brother sometimes when he has done nothing? Because he has done nothing but take me to the hospital. I didn't want to go to the hospital. Once there I didn't want to leave. I don't understand myself. Someone got shot by his father. The inverse of patricide. It lives in me, the inverse of self-creation. I want to destroy myself fiber by fiber. I want to die. I want to stop existence and get off the bus. I am not waiting for a bus. I am waiting to halt it. I am waiting for the bus to crash. I wait for the waves to drown me. But there is not an ocean here in the middle of the country. I wait for nothing. No waves drown me. I want to leave the country. I have nothing. I am nothing. I wait for nothing. The ocean was a symbol for life. I was drowned by existence. I was nothing then as I am nothing now. I was always no more than nothing. I saw myself as interminably verbose. I was articulate. Now I look forward to bad potato salad, the kind that is sweetened. I eat Cheez-It crackers. I splurge on empty calories because I am empty. I am empty and full of shit. I lie to everyone about everything. I am running out of cigarettes. About that I can tell you the truth. I am even good at typing. I am even good at sitting in bed. I am even good. I am even good. One day we will laugh about the parson's coat. I will not always look like a pimp. I will not always wear my father's clothes. I will not cut off an ear or even two. Even two. Even two. I know nothing. I am nothing. I am the inevitable consequence of my actions. I tried to commit suicide. I understand your wish for death. I am coughing my lungs out over it. I spurt up my insides. I cough them onto your plate. Here are my lungs. Here is my heart. I have no brain to give you. But take my heart and lungs, please. Take them and run.

Jennifer Chesler, 2012, Copyright, All Rights Reserved

Bourgeois Dreams

2011-09-30T17:03:00.001-07:00

The week was interminable and my loathing of it long. I struggled through each day with the words fucking hell as my only release. Drugs were denied me. The only way to regain them would be through money and lies. I was capable of obtaining the former and the latter… well, they came to me naturally. There was not even an exertion of effort needed.

List of things money can buy:

A house in Amsterdam
Drugs
A big party full of people I don't know doing drugs

These were my bourgeois dreams.

The pipes in the bathroom whistle. My electronic mahjong game goes on without me. Even the garbage bin rolls itself to the curb. The churchgoing family applauds. But my cat claws his way into the box spring -- the only show of aggression, the only resistance to matter at all -- like a convict might do to break out of prison. And there are those who, in resistance to matter, cut off a limb to save their lives, as when the infection rests in the bone.

Did I not too almost die from illness? Even the audience's mass exodus pales in comparison. Cancer? A blip on the map. I hope I do not alienate my brothers and sisters in death. Cerberus sniffed us all, though some more times than others. There is the usual palliative medicine, which makes the day pass quickly; the weeks, a dream. So you can imagine my dismay upon learning that I would be given no palliative care. I go to the food stamps office stripped. My shirt is over one ear. I hear my name ring into the waiting room, but see no one saying it. It confuses me. Who says my name into the blank room ahead of me? Behind you, says a voice. I turn. I didn't realize there was a back area, I say to the audience. Just to show you that this hasn't been for nothing, you'll meet with a second food stamp officer, the officer says. The food stamp interview takes place in two parts, she says. And you stopped working because work was scarce or?... asks the other officer. Pause. I tried to commit suicide on October 29th, I say. I haven't been able to work since then. Silence. He screws his nose a little one way. I'm fucked on time, I say and look at the clock. I'll have you out of here soon, he says. Your card comes in the mail from Tampa. Expect it Friday or Monday. I wear my sleeping bag of a down coat to protect my body from the elements, indoors and out, as a nun her habit. It's hard to remember the date of the food stamps interview. I do remember the holidays between which it falls. Likewise, I do not remember the date of my suicide attempt three months prior to the October 29th incident. But that's only a lapse of a month in time.

And if I had friends I would toast to them
Instead of many more.
Their names I'd pronounce so scrupulously
I'd savor the sounds evermore.

After the suicide attempts, I am left with a numbness from a phantom self, like a phantom limb would haunt an amputee. It controls me, this wayward shadow taking the glory of existence for itself.

Rush to the spot where you tried to kill yourself. Rush there. There's a big suicide sale at midnight. All shoppers get two attempts for the price of one. You can save a lot of money on caskets and burial costs. Your family will be pleased with your economy. Don't call anyone this time around. Just asphyxiate yourself and die. Your life is worthless. Love is worthless.

I wish I was dead. T. says wishes are for children. I am a child who wishes for the cessation of breathing. I am a coward. One day I will be successful at dying. It happens to everyone. The final breaths will be difficult. I am lost. I am mad. I am not here. I am here. I repeat myself. I am a lost child who is a coward. I see no way around lying. Telling the truth is forbidden to me. I have too much to hide. I was ousted from the hospital when I wanted to stay there, for making the other patients uncomfortable by revealing my thoughts in group therapy.

The group leader says, You don't have to prove yourself to anyone, not a single living soul. All you have to worry about is…

Ourselves, the group unenthusiastically fills in.

Ourselves, says the group leader. That's right. Now, can anyone give an example of when they tried to prove themselves to others?

I was a prostitute for 11 years, I say. My parents wanted me to do something different, so I applied to law school and got accepted. I didn't end up going, I say. But I had tried to prove myself to my parents. A week before I was supposed to go to school they rescinded their offer to help me monetarily. They thought I was unbalanced mentally. I was, I say. But that hadn't stopped me from doing anything before.

Okay, says the group leader, cutting me a bit short. Jennifer shared with us an example of how trying to prove herself failed. Let's get another story. Does anyone else care to share with the group?

Everyone remains silent. I guess I shouldn't have said the prostitution part. I should have left that out. But isn't leaving out the prostitute part only capitulating to the mores of the group, I ask myself. Wouldn't leaving it out be me trying to prove myself to them?

It's hard to get anyone to speak now. My friend in the group sleeps soundly in his chair. He's not snoring, but his breathing is audible. He's going through withdrawal from painkillers and takes Suboxone, a synthetic heroin.

It's his medication, says the group leader when someone asks why he is asleep. Let's end here, he says. See you tomorrow.

My friend wakes up and walks with me to the dining hall. He takes a tray from the stack and hands it to me. Here you go, he says. We occupy the remaining empty table. Shit, he says. Someone we don't know sits down with us. Mind if I sit with you, the intruder asks. No, go ahead, my friend says. He nudges my foot under the table.

The stranger leaves before we finish eating. Whew, says my friend, glad he's gone. Yes, I say. I finish my peach cobbler and pick up my tray.

How can I get the medicine you get, I ask him on the way back to the ward.

You've got to come in knowing what dose you want, he says. Say you're on the medicine already. They won't test you.

What dose would I take, I ask him.

Start with six milligrams, he says. That should keep you.

Thanks, I say.

No problem.

We sit in the common room and drink decaf coffee. He slips his hand into my fur poncho. The nurses and patients are all around. I feel his hand on my left breast.

Jennifer, a nurse says, we've got your medication ready.

I get up and take my pill. My friend is gone when I return. I sit on the couch alone. No one dares to sit next to me, probably because my friend always sits there. He looks like a strung-out thug, someone whose nose has been broken and eyes blackened, someone who has done the same to others.

He sits next to me again.

Heard what you said in group, he says.

What did I say, I ask.

About having been a hooker, he says. My roommate warned me about you. He said he wouldn't even kiss your cheek. Told me to keep a distance. Fuck, he says, why didn't you tell me you worked the streets?

I was a call girl, not a street prostitute, I say. I take offense to his assumption that I'd been on the lowest rungs. I was an escort, I say in case he didn't get it the first time.

Copyright, 2011, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Untitled

2010-10-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

If someone saves your life
Before the pills take effect,
Expect to be jerked from bed
And sent into an ambulance.
It is helpful to remember
Your social security number
And your death wish,
As the emergency technicians
Inquire about both.
So be warned that
A bottle or two of pills
Doesn't necessarily bring death,
Even if you eat them with a cup of poppy tea.

You're an opium addict, my father says. I agree with him. I sleep in the poppies, I say, and my bed unfolds in the morning.

On this side of the river is Limbo.
On the other side is death.

My cousin brings me to a strange land with a collar around my neck meant for horses. I don't know if horses wear collars. I always thought they wore harnesses. But in this dream, I wear a decorative collar meant for a special horse, white lace with a black pendant in the center.

I model the collar for my family. It doesn't flatter you because it's meant for horses, says my mother. My father has changed his name from Ken to Mike. He says, I kept two letters the same. I wouldn't recognize him except for his insistence that my thighs are fat. I don't stay with my family. Along the way to the hotel, my cousin tosses basketsful of flowers in front of me.

Between Limbo and the Stygian shore
I blossom into my thighs.

This land doesn't exist on any map. The closest approximation in literary terms is Israel, but the glyph of a name that represents it preceded Israel's formation by millennia. At one time it was possible to get there through the River Styx. Then the underworld became an unfashionable destination for travelers, and ambulances would come to round them up before they entered the water. At first the emergency technicians met with resistance from the travelers, but, after they saw that nothing could be done to stop the workers, they no longer put up a fight.

The Stygian shore remains closed to travelers,
But the strange land on the other side welcomes
Those who cross the river
Despite the discouraging sign that says all saved.

Copyright, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved, 2010

Dead Animals

2010-08-24T13:40:00.001-07:00

Fanny Flatule sits next to the Russian Blue who is giving birth. One of the kittens is dead. Its skin is blue, not blue like the mother, but blue-skinned translucent. She picks it up and puts it in a box for her friend Pete who is an artist. He makes lamps and stuffed animals out of animal corpses. He'll like this, she thinks. Fanny's mother comes in the room wearing a caftan. You've always looked good in blue, says Fanny to her mother. I can see the veins on your forehead, her mother says to her, ignoring the compliment. Yes, says Fanny, I was worried about Edna. Edna comes from a sturdy line of purebred Russians, says her mother. But purebreds are notoriously delicate, Fanny says. Pah, says her mother, spittle flying out of her mouth. What's up with the dead one, her mother asks. I'm giving him to Pete who makes dead things into art, Fanny says. Pete won't go out with you, her mother says. Oh, mom, I don't care if Pete wants to be my boyfriend; it's enough that he has sex with me because I give him dead animals, Fanny says. You're worth more than trading carcasses for sex, her mother says. Her brow furrows. She wipes her mouth with her hands and removes the white mucous built up on her lips. Let's measure the dead one's paws and compare them to the other kittens' paw widths, the mother suggests. That'd be fun, says Fanny, always happy to share in activities with her mother. They take the box and place it on the work table. There is a cardboard cutout of a paw glued to it. They put the dead kitten's paw on the cutout and measure it with a ruler. Grab a live one, says the mother. Fanny picks one up and measures its paw. It's one centimeter bigger than this one's left paw, Fanny says. But did you measure the right or left paw on the dead one, asks the mother. The left, says Fanny. Of course, says the mother. Fanny is pregnant with twin girls. Her mother says, We need foot cutouts for when the girls are born; one might have bigger feet than the other. If one or both are dead, I don't want any measuring, says Fanny. Birthing is hard work, says the mother. What's that supposed to mean, asks Fanny. It means that you might, my dear, might not even know where your babies are after you push them out of you, the mother says. Oh, I'll know where they'll be right now, says Fanny. And where is that, asks her mother. On my chest, says Fanny. Your chest of drawers, asks the mother. Mom, stop joking around, Fanny says. Well, I know how you like to display trophies, says the mother. These babies aren't trophies, Fanny says. Tell Pete that, says her mother. He'd not even be the least bit glad if they were stillborn, says Fanny.

Copyright, 2010, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Death Match Interlude

2010-03-25T01:39:00.001-07:00

'Drogen 'nide for the roaches. Laughter. Musta breathed in deep. Ha ha ha. Thought he was gonna get death off 'im, he gets the 'itter 'mond smell 'stead. Baines, these shower shows, balls, I tell ya', shoulda seen Emond Strauss for coffin shoes. Coughing. 'Drogen 'nide. Laughter. Rolling, I'm rolling. Musta had the wrong name.

You're fucked in the head.

In the head, fucked, ha ha ha. Baines, the head.

Faggot.

You fucking scumbag. Fighting. I'm going to kill you.

Lay off, lay off. You're going to kill me.

You'll wish you were dead.

Baines punches Boris who crashes against a cart of blood-filled vials. The tubes smash against the floor, the blood spraying a red fan into the air and onto the wall of the hospital. Boris lashes back at Baines, but Baines ducks.

I don't wish I was dead yet.

Baines slashes Boris' face with a jagged vial. He wipes the blood from his eyes with his shirtsleeve and blindly staggers away from Baines. Baines pulls Boris towards him and slices across his neck with the broken glass. Blood gurgles from his throat.

Bai --

Copyright, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved, 2010

Olive and Sea Nathan, Chapter One

2010-01-16T11:57:00.001-07:00

"Hey, you made it here on time," says the shipmaster. "Good thing, 'cause, well, you know . . . " He trails off. "We's done set out a year early," Sea Nathan says, "so as to meet your deadline." "Good on ya'," says the shipmaster. "Always hate that bloody business." "Yes, so's us," says Olive. "You can take your sack and head to the C bunk." "Thank ya'," says Sea Nathan. "By the way, where'd ya' come from?" asks the shipmaster. Olive and Sea Nathan laugh. "The desert," Olive says. "We's walked through the desert." "Holy fuck, that's a mite far," says the shipmaster. Some sailors surround him. "Newcomers?" asks a surly one. "That's right," says the shipmaster. "Here, let me take your sack," the sailor says. "We's fixin' to be just fine," says Olive, "But thank ya' anyways." The sailor's eyes follow them up the plank to the ship. "They need to bathe," he says. "I bet they head for the showers. Let's go." He and the other sailors meander to the shower room. One extremely large one, Boris, directs the others. "You all hide out 'til we know if they're in there," he says. "I'll go check." He tiptoes to the door, opens it, and looks in, leaves, locks the door. "They're showering!" The sailors laugh, run to the back of the building, and begin turning dials on contraptions lining the wall. Olive and Sea Nathan scream from the shower. The sailors turn the dials again. Their screaming abates. They go at this several times, erupting in laughter, until Sea Nathan comes out with a towel wrapped around his hips. "What in the hell are you boys doin'?" he asks. "We's pumping in some gas," says Boris. "Ya' imitatin' me," Sea Nathan says." "How did you get out of there?" Boris asks. "I's got my ways," says Sea Nathan. "We didn't travel this far to be here this early for no torture." "We do it to all the newcomers. Don't feel singled out," Boris says. "We like to give you a feeling of imminent death." "We's had it on the way here," Sea Nathan says. "Yeah," continues Boris, "we rigged it up especially for people who just get here." Sea Nathan falls to the ground. "Get medical!" says Boris. A team of masked technicians run toward Sea Nathan, followed by a couple of men holding a stretcher. The towel falls off Sea Nathan while they lift him. It lays on the ground. Olive comes out of the shower room, dressed in a seaman's uniform. But Sea Nathan, the sailors, the technicians, they have already left the scene. She picks up the towel and returns to the showers to collect Sea Nathan's uniform. The sun is no longer visible, yet it is not yet dark. The light is dim. Olive walks towards the bunkhouse, her head down.

Copyright, Jennifer Chesler, 2010, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan XIII

2010-01-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

"Ya' think we're gettin' out of this sand soon?" Olive asks. "Up aways, if you look from the mountain like I did last night, ya' see there's a stop to the desert, but not what follows from it." "And ya' didn't tell me this when we woke?" "I's didn't wanna get up your hopes." "Not get up my hopes? Woo-wee!" Olive says. "Sure 'nough did see some palm trees from the mountain though." He laughs heartily. "Let's us believe you weren't seein' things 'gain." Olive says. "I told you not -- " Sea Nathan stops himself. "Yes, let's not believe," he says. "that, when we get past the shrubs, it'll be a veritable wonderland." "Now you's makin' fun o' me. I can tell," says Olive. "I ain't pokin' fun at ya'. I'm just speakin' the truth in a nasty way, 'tending it'll be one way when it'll be another." "I never knows with you," Olive says. "I just never knows."

Copyright, 2010, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan V-XII

2010-01-04T13:47:00.002-07:00

Sea Nathan puts the sack on the ground and pulls out a shriveled apple. He holds it up to the sun and examines it. "You sure I ain't gonna get sick from it?" "I've done eaten five of 'em. You don't see me sick," says Olive. He sits on a rock and puts the apple in his mouth. "Tastes rotten," he says. "Tastes rotten, but it ain't," says Olive. Sea Nathan chews the fruit slowly. He reclines on the rock as though it were a bed. "We's gonna be restin' plenty with you and your slow ways," Olive says. "Don't matter," he says. He takes off his wool sweater and exposes his brown flesh to the sun. "You's gonna keep watch to make sure I don't die 'fore I wake?" he asks. She glares at him. He laughs, then falls asleep. Olive takes a stick and scratches at the earth absent-mindedly. She rests her body on a flat rock amongst the cacti and falls asleep. Her thin form melds one to one with the flat slab of stone so that she might be laundry left in the sun to dry. When she awakes, the sky is red. Red at night, sailor's delight; red in the morning, sailors take warning, Olive thinks, poking Sea Nathan with her finger. "We'd best be on our way," she says, "even though it's gonna be night." "I's gotta rest some more," Sea Nathan says. He closes his eyes. "You old sack o' bones, get up. Got to go to the shipyard, we do." "And if we don't get there?" he asks, raising his head from the rock, "Then what?" He faces west and squints in the glare of the sun. "They's gonna find us." "They ain't gonna find us. But don't worry. We'll get to where we're goin'." "We don't even know the day no more," she says. "I do," he says. "It's Tuesday." "Yeah, but Tuesday o' what week, month, year?" Olive asks. "It's Tuesday, the 18th of March, 1972," says Sea Nathan, "You tally the days 'till we's got to be there. I ain't got time but to sleep."

*

The beige scrub grows to Sea Nathan's knees. He cuts his right hand, a scratch down the center of the palm, while he puts on his boots. "Fuck," he says and sucks the blood. "Olive, Olive," he says, "wake up now. Time to get a move on. Olive, Olive . . . " Olive rolls her head towards him on the flat slab of rock. "Time now?" she asks. "Time," he says. "If ya' say so," Olive says. "I say so," Sea Nathan says. They walk. Sea Nathan drapes the diminished sack over his back. "If it was April," Sea Nathan says, "we'd be cuttin' them prickly pear fruit. Just another month." "Still got to get out the spines," says Olive. "Always the painful part," Sea Nathan says. ""Cept we's got them pliers now, don't we?" asks Olive. "Them's for breakin' free o' the law," says Sea Nathan, "not for pickin' spines out o' fruit." "Break free from the law to gets killed anyways, don't it make no sense," says Olive. "We's got a chance to work for the rest of our lives, should we get there on time. That's different from waiting for a bucket to shit in your whole life. The law might not kill ya', and then you're waitin' for the vegetable next to you to give you his pan. I tell ya' that shittin's the hardest thing 'bout prisonment." "I'd rather be shittin' in a pan than dead," Olive says. "Shit in your pan then, Olive. I's not goin' back." The blood on his hand dries to a crust. He picks it off and brushes it from his skin.

*

"Damn the skeletons," Sea Nathan says. "Why, they all dead in a line and thrown atop one 'nother," Olive says. "And not one of 'em died with a flask in his hand," he says. "Don't it cross your mind that some other man or woman found the flask 'fore ya'?" Olive asks. "No, it don't cross my mind 'cause they ain't been none afore us." "How'd ya' know, huh?" Olive asks. "Don't cross my mind 'cause none there is -- will be." "Ya' don't say how ya' know, Sea." "I see at night the 'ginnings of the end, and knows we was born into this world with our father teaching us one thing to survive, not to think of a past that may not have existed, and there ain't none past that ain't not existed." "Without a past, there's no 'ginning," Olive says. "It seeps into me like a slow poison," Sea Nathan says. "I feel it in my veins. I think I see the 'ginning 'cause it's close to the end." "You can't say that," Olive says. "You can't say that," she repeats.

*

"You 'member them prisoners in the outfit," Olive says. "They's like us, finishin' our sentences at the end. How you think they's gettin' to the shipyard? No way but to walk. And we thought we was gettin' away," Olive trails off. "You can't say you see a 'ginning and no past at the same time, 'specially when you gots in your mind them prisoners. Maybe one of 'ems got a boat o' their own. We could work our way 'cross the sea and start over someplace where we get our teeth back." "You and your damned teeth. I don't give a shit about your teeth." "I's got to have somethin' to chew with," she says. "You've gots to have somethin' to chew," he says.

*

"Like gum," Olive says. "Yes, like gum, if such a thing still existed. Well-set teeth thwart even the richest sailor, Olive. Ya' can't have hopes like that." "My teeth done fell out, and I wants new ones." "I understand ya'," he says with a nod. "Let's see what we have on these here corpses then." "Let's see in their mouths," Olive says. "That's where I'm aimin' to look now," Sea Nathan says. "Nah, these teeth done firm set. These here I could pry loose with pliers. What d'ya want?" "I want some that are already fake," she says. "We'll find 'em soon 'nough. Rest assured," he says. "You always got to think of the hard way," she says, "'instead o' comin' up with the latest innovation. You's got to be a dentist to put teeth from one mouth to another."

*

"How is it that you managed chewin' them dried apples? That's what I wants to know," Sea Nathan says. "I done sucked 'em like candies," Olive says. "Ha!" "What do you mean laughin' at me?" Olive asks. "Nothin'," says Sea Nathan. "You's got to have meant somethin'." "Olive, I's laughing 'cause I know you know how to suck," says Sea Nathan. His head drops to his chest and then raises back up again. Olive glares at him. "We'd best get on this project then," he says, reaching from mouth to mouth in the gray predawn light of morning. "Look here!" says Sea Nathan. "I done found a set that pop out." "Well, fancy that," Olive says, "someone else who ain't got teeth got some put in 'fore they died. Now there's at least two of us. Ha!" "I wouldn't categorize myself with someone dead," Sea Nathan says. "It's bad luck to 'sociate with a corpse. Bad 'nough your mouth is gonna be smellin' of death more than it does already." "At least I got me my teeth back," Olive says. She reaches towards the rock where Sea Nathan placed the teeth, holding the dentures in her hand as if to warm them before popping them in her mouth, as if by holding them and warming them the teeth won't be tainted by the corpse-mouth from which they came. "I's got teeth!" she says, smiling at Sea Nathan. "Them teeth's too big for your mouth," he says. "Don't matter me none," Olive says. "Ain't no mirror but you."

*

The two urchins make their way through a path cleared in the field of corpses. They are sunburned yet cold. "Hey, Sea," asks Olive, "who you think done laid this here path?" "I think the path 'peared on its own. The bodies fell one by one, side by side, in rows so as to leave room for the living to pass." "Ain't so simple as that," Olive says. "They's been dead a whole lifetime. Just skeletons now. Can't talk. Can't tell us nothin'. They's in formation for some reason, not just that they's courteous to you and me." "Wasn't bein' serious, Olive. I don't know why there is this path." "You think someone come before us who is still alive?" Olive asks. "I don't know," says Sea Nathan.

Copyright, 2010, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan IV

2009-12-07T14:53:00.001-07:00

They emerge from the oasis of death. The dust springs up in clouds underneath their work boots. "Your name is love and evil," says Sea Nathan. "If you mix up the letters," Olive says. "Yes," says Sea Nathan, "but your love is evil too." "There ain't no evil in love," Olive says, "unless you count lovin' the dead bodies." "It's not the bodies that're evil, and it's not countin' 'em that's bad, but when you -- " "You'll leave it at that," Olive says. She begins to dress. She steps into her thick brown pants. "I ain't gonna leave nothin' at that. Your love for these dead people is gonna make us get stuck in the quicksand they've become. One day we'll be walkin' over faces, and you'll be stoppin' to kiss one of 'em for steppin' on its nose. You're the snake that's done eaten its tail." "There ain't nothin' wrong with pity for the dead," Olive says. She hooks her bra and slips her gnarled wool sweater over her head. "And," Olive continues, "my name's got 'live' in it. I'm gonna live." "Ain't but both of us gonna live or both of us gonna die," Sea Nathan says. "Besides, it ain't pity what you got." Olive takes down her hair and picks bugs from her scalp, pinching them between her fingers before she throws them on the earth. "Buggers," Olive says. "We're in this together. We made vows not to -- " "I was talkin' 'bout the nits," Olive says. "Oh," says Sea Nathan. They begin to walk again, slowly and with great weariness. "You has better take the sack," says Olive, "'cause I ain't got the strength to carry it on my own." Yes'm," says Sea Nathan. "Still got some of them apples in here?" "They's dried like prunes now," Olive says, "and you can chew 'em like gum."

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan III

2009-12-05T00:40:00.000-07:00

Sea Nathan and Olive undress. They take off everything except their shoes and socks. The muddy ground beneath them swarms with maggots; it's a graveyard of massacred bodies. A dead face pushes up against the earth, the nose protruding, the eyes open, vacant, eyeballs intact. The mist engulfs Olive and Sea Nathan. They can't see the face. Olive steps on it. "Oh, my," she says, "I think that's somebody." "What?" asks Sea Nathan. "I think I stepped on somebody." "Shit!" says Sea Nathan, "We're on a sea of corpses. Get out of here." "I think I stepped on somebody else," Olive says. "Just hurry," says Sea Nathan. "I'm stepping on people left and right," Olive says. She grabs their clothes from atop a large stone. "There's somebody might have died with a drink in his hand," Sea Nathan says. He reaches down and picks up a flask. "Nah," Sea Nathan says, "empty." "Don't be picking up a dead man's things," Olive says. She grabs the flask and tosses it away from them. It lands on stone where their clothes were, clanks against its surface, and slips back into the mud. "Shit!" says Sea Nathan, "Give me my pants." Olive hands him his thick brown trousers. "Put them on then," Olive says, "once we're through the corpses. Otherwise, you'll get the stench on 'em for good." "Fuck, Olive, I don't care 'bout no stench," Sea Nathan says, "on my pants. Just don't want it stuck in my skin." "Suit yourself," Olive says. She continues through the mist naked. Sea Nathan slips on his pants. "This is what pants are for," Sea Nathan says, "nowadays. If they're offended by the smell of death at the shipyard, they can hose me down." "'Fore they kill ya'," Olive says. "Yes, if we're late," says Sea Nathan.

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan II

2009-11-19T07:26:00.002-07:00

They crawl to the shipyard through the desert. By crawl, not crawl. Walking slowly, resigned to their fate, a singular fate. If they get to the shipyard on time, they get to work; if they are late, they get their heads lopped off. It makes but little difference to the two wanderers, home being nowhere, and nowhere being home. There is no one in the world, except for the shipyard workers, but Olive and Sea Nathan. How they managed to survive is anyone's guess. Perhaps they were part cockroach, finding the right nook or cranny with which to meld their thin, brown forms so that not a crack could be discerned, only a thin, dark line in what might have been a crevasse at one point in time. "Oh, my," says Olive, "a lone rattler." "A dead rattler," says Sea Nathan. "It's the only rattler we've seen in this here desert," Olive says. "Not the only dead rattler I've seen," Sea Nathan says, "ought to be more observant, you should." "Ought to pay more attention to the dead things is right," Olive says, "so that when I'm a dead thing I can see myself too." "You won't be seeing anything," Sea Nathan says, "It'll be like the cockroach position." Sea Nathan knows about himself. He wipes his hands on his thick brown trousers. "Ain't no point in pretending it'll be no different."

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Day of the Dead

2009-11-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

Ain't nothin' scary 'bout dyin'. All these people, they, y'know, they, they want to believe in the afterlife, like they call it. Well, ain't nothin' to worry 'bout. There ain't no afterlife. I died, and there was nothin'. I don't even 'member it, it was so, uh, nothin'. My girl, yeah, she pried my mouth open. Then the vomit got out or I woulda' choked on it. Propped me up too, my girl. Sat me up on my ass is what she did. I woulda' choked that way as well, y'know. Ain't nothin' scary 'bout dyin', like I says before. I don't 'member nothin' 'cept nothin'. Next night she raped me, my girl. She liked to wear one of them strap-ons, y'know, a big one that was made to fit her. I tried to fight her offa' me, but she stuck herself right in. Jerked off then, she did, with the strap-on and all. Damn, I says to myself, she don't care nothin' 'bout me. Kicked her out the next day, I did. Laughed and laughed and laughed. I ain't shittin' ya' either. I was poor broke then. I got me a job at one of them brothels and somethin' bad happen made me pregnant. I couldn't pay for no 'bortion, so I made myself miscarry; yeah, I did. Won't tell ya' how though, just that I did it. But when that baby come outta' me, that little fetal thing, I flush it down the toilet real fast. But before it done come outta' me, I just, uh, wanted to jump, uh, outta' my apartment winda'. I woulda' fall real nice. I went on government assistance for a little while after that, and then I was a stripper again; couldn't handle no hookin'. Made me 'member that dead thing comin' outta' me. Shit, ain't every day for the dead?

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Eviction Notice

2009-11-06T06:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Quick-Tips, Prick-Lips, Cunt-Licking Prick, and Cock-Sucking Dick,

As residents of the Local 1080, please be advised that our Resident Protection Plan will no longer be effective as of November 6, 2009. What this means is that your landlord is free to evict you, should he, she, or they so desire. The Freedom To Be A Cocksucker Act, or FTBACA, was rescinded by the Congress of Idiots. Please excuse the capitalization. The Idiots voted unanimously against the protections you once enjoyed. The Landlord Guild discussed the situation at great length at the Local 1080 General Assembly meeting. If you were not there, you should know that the Landlord Guild hired private investigators, who found out that you are prostitutes. They said that, unless you stop charging for sex, you will be evicted.

Best Wishes,
Alan Gunzer
Local 1080 President

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights, Reserved

Law and Mr. Ricken

2009-11-05T06:47:00.001-07:00

Mr. Ricken said to chicken you rubber-bodied goose pap, you could try once to jump fly run to see where it leads you, dunno ello the waves jumped high on our riff-raft. Water spelled over until cco the dde went under. Until mme and you we he said he, hey, Mr. Ricken, you want to jump along the way with us, you want to jump along the way. Ricken was a deep man his throat went down real far, then his gorge split three ways: one, down the esophagus; two, a trachea; and, three, a pipe down the folk band clapping singing crying for a second in between, oh jesus, oh jesus, baby jesus shrinking in the waves. Salt is not good for a warm-blooded man dde ccep loz. We drank the water, and it poisoned our ass. We saw no sun pushing into the window, not the light of the sun but the sun itself, colorless light if light had form without substance, the inverse of Ricken, the inverse of Ricken's deep gorge throat was the sun blooming from the darkness of a dream-filled night. Fish go here. More chants to jesus and a long pause, nothing being said, thought, looked at, only the slap slap waves on the rock sand shore. Mr. Ricken is a free man he lives without the law. His law is the law is gone. His wife had a daughter named Laura and for short her called her "Law." Law Ricken was a good girl and cute in every way. Her skin was whitish pink and a soft fine texture with eyes the color of green apples. She wore her hair in a ponytail and almost never spoke. She would say things like, "Please pass the pea pods," or, "Could you quit hocking my space," but other than that she was quiet and humble, not proud but strong in her bones and blood. Law Ricken didn't go to school. She stayed at home and was a free girl like her father was a free deep man. Law fell in love with Mr. Ricken ell may and he didn't love her right away. It took a year long time and Law was hungry. She drew pictures in her notebook and wrote "honger" on top of each one. Mr. Ricken was a stern man, firm but soft and loving, it took him a long time to take her in his arms. It hurt Mr. Ricken that Law had fallen in love with him. He said her love was like a siren's and even a free man with no law feared the drowning death. But Law didn't want to kill him, she wanted to make him immortal. Where was the mother of Law and wife of Mr. Ricken? She left and married a schoolmaster, a small but intense man who had a quickness in his eye that made some look away. But once Mrs. Ricken said Law should be free not churning rote phrases in a locked-in room. Not churning phrases in a chig chig romper rrun room nowhere learning to talk with the language. Law was tall once she shot up real fast, not full grown in a day but by the time she was 10 or 12 she was five foot ten, a giant girl but thin and supple so she seemed one two one with the air, not fighting resistance slicing herself in, coughing every now and then but otherwise chuckle laugh the stills smiling willing her arms above her head grabbing hher wrists with one big paw pushing her down against the bed with his weight heavy tree from the ground lifts his three-spout gorge pushing and gripping her long arms spreads her legs let him willing even the law was none is above the law there is none daddy Mr. Ricken pushing into her juicy tight wares sometime coming but other times licking her plump cunt until he feels her squirt out of her hole, not piss but juice and salty. She was a tasty slice of pie, moaning in his big warm hands. There was a chance he wasn't Law's father and the old Mrs. Ricken had Law by another man, since maybe Law didn't have a daddy at all and Mr. Ricken was a god. They didn't look one thing alike.

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

The Little Dog and Liver, or Allegory of a Limp-Dick Man

2009-11-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

There was a little dog who loved fresh liver.
His owner put the bowl down in front of him.
But the dog could only lower his head and wag his tail,
never reaching the liver itself. His owner grew frustrated
because he had prepared the liver for nothing.
If he took the bowl away the dog would cry.
He put the liver out and left it.
Here comes the little dog, wagging his tail,
with a clump of liver stuck to his nose.

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Olive and Sea Nathan

2009-08-07T06:21:00.001-07:00

Sea Nathan buttons his thick brown pants. He and Olive collect their belongings and shuffle down the road. They are clearly out of place, urchins removed from the sea. He turns to her and says, "I dreamed about the nymphs again, luring me." "They're luring you to death," she says, "if you know the story." "Ah, but it's so pleasant to die," he says, "no eating, shitting, fucking -- well, sometimes a fuck if there's a corpsefucker out there." "You're as good as dead anyhows," she says, "like when Granny was dying and saw you with all our dead relatives 'round her." "I ain't got but one time to say this … ain't got but one time … " and that was it from Sea Nathan. They walk and take turns holding their heavy sack. The sun burns up the clouds. It beats on their hatless heads so hard that it bores through their eyes and penetrates the ground they stare at, dust and rock. "We'll keep walking 'til the shipyard," Olive says, but Sea Nathan's silence continues unabated. Night falls. Their scorched faces turn towards each other. "Well, guess we can't keep going through the night," Olive says, "'cause we'll get fooled by the darkness, you know, and miss the road to the yard. We'll be later than ever. Yeah, good luck so far gettin' there early enough not to get our heads chopped … " They walk towards a tree with apples underneath it. (There isn't fruit on the tree, so Olive isn't sure from where the apples originated.) Olive says, "Eat me here some of this fruit," and picks up a shriveled apple. Sea Nathan lies down and sleeps. After a while Olive, worried he's dead, shakes his shoulder. "I'm not dead," he says and falls back asleep. He hears her ask him in a dim, faraway voice, "What's wrong with you?" He forces himself to sleep until the sun begins to heat him. "Okay," he says. They pick up on the road where they left off and fill the remaining space in their sack with the desiccated fruit.

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Thick Thighs

2009-01-27T08:40:00.002-07:00

You've got thick thighs, and your brain is diseased.
Diseased, you say?
A twister, it is.
Ah, a whirlwind then.
More like a torrent of hate.
Well, I'd imagine one would need thick thighs in such a circumstance; sinewy ones reek of love.
Fuck your thighs.

Copyright, 2009, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Three Lovers in a Forest (Revised and Extended)

2008-09-25T04:43:00.002-07:00

Thank you for submitting "Three Lovers" to us. The Edge of the World specializes in publishing apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic poetry. Occasionally, we run drama and prose. If you can rework "Three Lovers" into a poem, The Edge of the World would consider placing it in our Oceanus section.

Three Lovers in a Forest

"We'll never pass the Caucasus."

"We'll never make the river."

"We're mired in the forest."

"We'll grow tall to reach the sun, heliotropes, and paint our faces with crushed red currants so we resemble flowers rather than women."

(They begin to fight about more quickly crossing the Caucasus.)

"It's the Land of Nod, if we wander here forever."

"Look at the bruisepink sky."

"Soon the sun will set."

I'm sorry. This still doesn't read as a poem.

Pub, Bud, and Bets

2008-06-11T01:11:00.001-07:00

[Beginning of recorded material]

Publisher: Give it some time, Budweiser. We want to make sure she's not just pretending to write literature, you know, filling in key words, using phrases linked to art ... If she lived in the city and wrote about having typed memos, that'd be one thing. No, we don't want to be hustled here, pandering crap. We're not shit-panderers, Bud.

Bud: Yeah, I've heard a lot of these whores learn fancy talk from their johns, slap it down the page, and bammo! ... That's it, the end of justice.

Pub: That's not happening this time, we're going to make damn sure. [Presses intercom button.] Betty, could you come in here a minute?

[Enter Betty.]

Pub: Betty, could you call the whore's agent and say we just don't know for sure, that maybe we'll wait till her second book is done? Can't be too sure nowadays. Whores can get their hands on everything.

Betty: Should I say the whore part?

Pub: No, no. Keep that between us. Wouldn't want to give her anything else to write about. [Phone rings.] I'll get it, Bets. You can go back to your desk. Hello?

Me: If you don't publish my books, could I give you free blowjobs?

Pub: I'm not paying.

Me: No, free blowjobs. I won't even charge for the type.

Pub: Nothing you could possibly do would be worth any money; not now, anyway.

Me: I'm not asking for money, not even minimum wage.

Pub: I'm not paying.

Me: I'll kill you when you're sleeping.

Pub: Send your resume to my secretary. Put "Attention: Publisher." We'll call you if we're interested.

[Hangs up phone.]

Bud: Now they're phone-soliciting!

Pub: Can't get your cock sucked nowadays. Everything costs something. You'd think we were running a charity, the way these artists want money.

Bud: We don't want to encourage prostitution.

Pub: We don't believe in whores.

Bud: Whores cost money, and life isn't free.

Pub: Let's call up the lunch wagon.

Bud: Gonna' ring Betty?

Pub: Yeah.

Bud: Hey, I wonder if she takes it up her ass.

Pub: Betty has been with us for years. She's a good gal.

Bud: You did her?

Pub: Nah, knows the wife.

Bud: That's a drag.

Pub: Well, what can ya' do?

Bud: Gotta live.

Pub: Don't ya'! [Rings Betty.] Betty, could you call the lunch wagon now? [Hangs up phone.] Betty has been with us for years.

[End of recorded material]

The Narcissist (Slightly Extended but Revised)

2008-06-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hmm.
I was thinking . . .
About?
Careful.
One minute.
There.
The lawyer poising, a finger on his mouth. His left eye swells puffed with three creases in his desertweathered skin, eyes glassy with red spiderweb lines. He makes himself looks like he's thinking, thinking only about creating this tableau of himself deep in thought. Taut skin over bones, dry and tan. A finger bulbous at a knuckle on his large though thin hand.
Hmm, he says again. Could I? . . .
Careful.
He turns his head in the other direction, facing a window in the underground. Against the black tunnel wall the glass mirrors him. That's good, he thinks, finally able to get past this show of consideration.
I have time to listen, if what you have to say is not about me, he says.
It's not about you, says the writer.
Well. What is it then?
Nothing.
I want to hear it.
As long as it's not about you.
She goes too far. He loathes her sarcasm.
Fuck me, he shouts. Fuck me.
Shadows from a passing train flicker across his face. A passenger rolls his eyes.
I've got to get to work.
I'm distracted.
If only . . .
Hmm.
The train doesn't go any faster.
Work, work, work, he says, maneuvering himself off the underground, walking briskly up the urinesmelling staircase and into a yellow day. He stands under a tree and lights a long, thin brownpaper cigarette. Tents housing the homeless form a grid on the grass in front of the government building. The lawyer looks toward them, but his vacant eyes show no sign of recognition. His gaze is one of someone staring into an abyss. He finishes his cigarette, throws the butt in a trashcan, and glances around himself as though deciding which way to go, though his destination at this stop is, as always, the courthouse. As he mounts the steps, he stops and turns, having heard a female voice call his name. A middle-aged woman dressed in black steps out of a cab.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
[Laughter.]
I'm trying a case. You?
Oh, no. I'm just watching.
She appraises him.
First time in front of the 9th Circuit?
No, no. This is probably my 10th.
Are you a lawyer, she asks the writer.
No.
She's my girlfriend.
I came to watch too.
My boyfriend is in bed at the hotel in the East Bay.
[Laughter.]
She motions to his hand, which holds a pack of Nat Sherman's.
Got to watch him with those cigarettes.
She smokes more than I do. Me? . . . I only smoke a few a day. This was my first one.
She looks surprised.
Good luck.
Thanks. Good to see you.

The Narcissist

2008-06-03T09:31:00.001-07:00

Three Lovers in a Forest

2008-05-30T14:27:00.002-07:00

The Edge of the World specializes in publishing apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic fiction. Occasionally, we run poetry. If you reworked "Three Lovers in a Forest" into a poem, The Edge of the World would consider placing it in our Oceanus section.

"We'll never pass the Caucasus."
"We'll never make the river."
"We're mired in the forest."
"We'll grow tall to reach the sun, heliotropes, and paint our faces with crushed red currants so we resemble flowers rather than women."

(They begin to fight about more quickly crossing the Caucasus.)

"It's the Land of Nod, if we wander here forever."
"Look at the bruisepink sky."
"Soon the sun will set."

I'm sorry. This still doesn't read as a poem.

Viscera

2008-05-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

Lunch. An agent and a publisher.

G. Mort: Yeah. I read "Viscera."
Agent: Did you like it?
G. Mort: Ed Winslow is onto something. A harrowing, intricate farm novel.
Agent: Good to hear.
G. Mort: Afraid I'll have to pass though. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed one piece of "Viscera":

"What time is it, Winslow Homer," I ask him sarcastically.

"Time to wake the chickens, my girl, and time for picking their feathers," the gritty man says, "the ones we put the knife to when the chopping block blade is dull. Have you met the girl who brings in the chickens, Jennifer? Have ya' met her yet?"

"Yes, I met her in the morning. She seemed to be moving forward, thinking of things ahead of time, and then lopping off their heads with her down-swing too low. She was awkward with her strokes, but consistent in them," I tell him.

"Yes, the chickens follow her around the grounds like she doesn't make them into giblets. They don't know she eats them," the gritty man says.

"Stupid fowl," I say.

"Yeah," he says, "those birds must be pretty dumb, not knowing she makes giblets from 'em."

Agent: It's a novel in itself; a mini-novel, if you will.
G. Mort: Won't find a publisher for it, not as it is. Maybe rewrite it like the excerpt. See how that goes.
Agent: More dialog then?
G. Mort: Oh, yes.

Correspondence

2008-05-21T12:33:00.001-07:00

[Beginning of correspondence]

HELLO ALL -
we are seeking your best ficiton, non-fiction, poetry, and artwork for our winter 08 issue. www.dogzplot.com
also. new flash fiction stories posted tomorrow on the blog. check em out.
take care -
bg

Hi --
I'd be interested in submitting work to your online journal again; however, you unsubscribed to my blog, which makes me wonder if you've lost interest in my work. The last time I submitted something you asked for a submission from me. Let me know if you're still interested, and I'll send something your way.
Best Wishes,
Jennifer

dear jennifer -
no i have absolutely not lost interest in you or your work. my page was loading so sloooooooooowwwww, and i contacted the myspace folks and they said things like blog subscriptions, blog posts, html comments, number of friends, can all slow it down. so i cut back. likewise if you posted an html comment that is why you dont see it. even my b-day comments i got rid of - so sad. but yeah, please submit anytime. the responses to limp dick man were great. take care - bg

Hi --
Glad to hear you haven't lost interest. Here is a piece that I'd like to submit. Please let me know if this is the correct way to submit a piece to you, as I forget what the method was the last time. Let me know if you're interested in "The Other Woman" or not, as I have many more pieces I can submit. Thanks.
Best,
Jennifer

The Other Woman
Who cares whether or not the woman walking through the room is real? It's not difficult to touch her, only rare that she be touched. I've seen someone like this before, at the time when everything was other: everything was other until nothing was other anymore. It was all the same. A deep feeling of uneasiness fills her stomach. She faces the large buffet and sees there is spinach among the items. When she looks outside, wind blows sand against the window. No matter where I stand in the room there isn't enough light to see clearly. And if I could see more clearly, the shapes might not seem so dusty and alien. My anxiety is intermittent; but not for a second do I fail to discern the shape of complete dissolution. Trapped. Worse than an animal. She paces in a circle. If her head were cut off right now, her eyes would still glow a feral, yellowish shade. When you look at her from far away you'd be scared to look into her eyes; but when you would get closer they wouldn't be as awful. The insides of the yellow part might follow you as the eyes of a person might follow someone walking through a room. Her hair is short and dark. Her eyes have eyes inside themselves. The gleam in them is biting. When I see her eyes the next time, she has no bodily form. Her eyes are sewn into a small piece of dark blue cloth. There is a flap that folds over the top, and, when I lift it, her eyes are underneath, small, round, and crazy-looking.
Copyright, 2007, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

dear jennifer,
i read a lot of your stuff on your blog. the stuff i like the best is the kind that feels like someone has been slapped across the face, stung, bitten, etc. after i'm done reading it. this is more abstract. i dont necessarily like abstract. i prefer action and imagery. - bg

Hi --
Is the following piece more to your liking?

Prick-Lips and the Cock-Sucking Dick
Well, that one woman who sucked my cock, she came back over to suck my dick again. At least I thought she was coming over to let me stick my prick in her mouth. But she wasn't in a dick-prick-cock-sucking mood. She was in a "I'm a prick myself" mood. Like I said before, when she opened her mouth, she could be a real prick. She had all kinds of shit to say about what a cocksucker I am. She thinks cocksuckers should suck their own cocks, she told me. I wouldn't let her suck my dick then. She wanted to suck my cock later, but I said, "No, not now," to her. And she got upset about it and started crying. I wanted to slap her with my cock then, right across her face. I hate seeing anyone cry. "Fucking cocksucker," she said to me, hitting me in the arm. "I said I'd suck your fucking cock," she said. "It's too late now," I said. "You're a prick," I told her. I said, "You've got a penis mouth with words that spew like come." Prick-lips hit me again. I did nothing. "Hey, prick-lips," I told her, "get out." Then she started to throw plates around the kitchen. "Prick-lips! Prick-lips!" she yelled. "You're a fucking prick-lipped bastard." I guess I deserved that, for calling her prick-lips and all and not letting her suck my cock.
Copyright, 2007, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved
Best,
Jennifer

hello jennifer -
i really like the guys tone here, it works well, but theres too much cock here for my taste. whatever that means. what else you got? - bg

Hello bg --
Obviously, the whole point of "Prick-Lips and the Cock-Sucking Dick" was to use the word "cock" as much as possible to create an overall tone. I couldn't have achieved the tone you like without having used this technique. You seemed to like the "Limp-Dick Man on Date" piece previously on your page. I guess "cock" and "dick" are different, eh? Unfortunately, I think our styles diverge. You said you've read through my blog. If you want to post something that's on there, let me know. Otherwise, I'll find somewhere else for my work.
Best,
Jennifer

Author's Note: I sent "Correspondence" to "bg" with the following note:

Hello bg --
I call this "Correspondence." Perhaps you like this piece. It makes an interesting sort of meta-fiction, I think.
Best,
Jennifer

"Very nice," bg wrote.

[End of correspondence]

Meddle Shmeddle

2008-01-09T11:50:00.002-07:00

January 8, 2008: Today is my dead brother's birthday. My mom says we're not going to celebrate his birthday or commemorate him because it saddens her. She's sick of people dying. First, my dad gets run over by a car. Then, my brother gets killed in Iraq by friendly fire when he stopped to speak Farsi to Iranians at a checkpoint. My mom tells me to shut up about friendly fire and let my brother be remembered as a war hero. Let's make a cake for him and blow out the candles, I say. You just want cake. No, it's not the cake I like but the friendly fire of the candles, goading her. Julius, she spouts, you were once a popular boy, before you told people your brother was killed by his friend during an unnecessary killing spree. What do you have to go around ho-humming for that his friend went and shot him? I just want people to know my boy didn't die for nothing. That's all I'm asking. So you don't have to be saying that he got killed by his friend, because I want his Purple Heart to be worth something more than just its metal. I won't meddle with his medal, I say. Meddle shmeddle. We're still not having cake. She smiles, but her cadaverous face, decomposing before my eyes, falls flat. No cake, again.

Broken Bionicles

2008-01-09T11:50:00.001-07:00

December 5, 2007: I had my Bionicles set up in the kitchen, and my step-dad said to get them off the counter right away because he wanted to sit down and eat. "They're not in your way," I said. He pushed me to the side of the counter and shoved the Bionicles off it; they fell on the floor next to me, disassembled, with the parts all mixed together. My mom came in the kitchen. When she saw the broken Bionicles she told me to go outside and play with Kevin. Kevin said he heard about my brother on the news, that he was a war hero for stopping Iranian insurgents from blowing themselves up at a checkpoint. When I told him that my brother got killed by friendly fire, he didn't know what I was talking about. "His friend shot him," I said, "by accident. The Iranians weren't insurgents. They were just Iranian." Kevin didn't believe me. "My dad says your brother is a hero," he said, raising his voice a little. "Well, he's not a war hero. He spoke Farsi, and that got him in trouble," I said. Then I started to get upset about my Bionicles being thrown on the floor. Kevin thought I was crying because my brother died. "No," I told him, "my Bionicles are broken."

Farsi Shmarsi

2008-01-09T11:48:00.000-07:00

November 23, 2007: Today we went to the mortuary. My mom said they put flags on all the coffins of dead soldiers, even ones like my brother who got killed by what's called friendly fire. I said to my mom, "But he wasn't even fighting the war when he was killed." And she said, "Yes, he was." I left it at that. She didn't like to think his best friend shot him by accident. My brother was standing next to a stopped car that the soldiers thought was going to explode. It didn't. But the soldiers shot all the passengers anyway, and my brother was trying to talk to the people in the car because he spoke Farsi -- they were Iranians trying to get back to Iran -- and got killed along with them. "I guess he shouldn't have studied Farsi in college then," I said, secretly gloating because now he was dead, and it didn't matter that he had spoken a language I never knew. "Farsi shmarsi," she said; and I figured it was as pointless to get her to take me to visit his grave as it was to get her to take me to visit my dad at the cemetery.

Julius' Diary

2008-01-09T11:47:00.000-07:00

November 22, 2007: Last night someone from the Army came over. He told us that my brother got killed in Iraq. His face was blown off, he said, so we couldn't look at him. That made me sad, about his face being destroyed, probably because we looked alike, and now we don't anymore. I thought it was stupid for him to join the Army. I told him to play Army video games instead, but he wanted to defend our country, he said, and couldn't do it on a computer screen. So now I don't have a father or a brother. I have a mom and step-dad. My step-dad is nice, except for when he wants me to clean or take medicine. He told me to go to college instead of joining the military. He said, "Now you see your face can be blown to bits," and shook his head. "But they won't let me look at him," I said. "Yeah, good," he said. Then he went upstairs and cried. He'd been in Vietnam and has posttraumatic stress disorder. I think that's what the doctor called it. Sometimes at night he wakes me up because of his screaming. One of his feet had to be cut off during the war, and, when he dreams about it, he says it's like his foot is being amputated all over again.

Copyright, 2007, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Skeleton Shmeleton

2008-01-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

My name is Julius. I'm 5-years-old. I don't look like my mother except for the color of my eyes. They're blue. I learned how to talk when I was 9-months-old. I know as many words as my brother who is in college. I do crossword puzzles faster. You should see me go. But I like to make Bionicles more than talk. We have a basement in our house. I put all the dead ones there. Mostly it's the good Bionicles who get it first. There are good guys and bad guys. I just throw the ones who got killed on the floor. My mother doesn't care.

My father is dead too. He got run over by a car when he was riding his bike to work one day. That was unexpected. We didn't know what to do. There were a lot of things that needed to get done that he usually did. So my mom married another guy. He's okay. Sometimes he tries to make me take medicine that tastes bad. My mom says the doctor prescribed it for me, but I think the new guy blends it up special to get me to gag.

We had a nice funeral for my dad. A year after he died we had the unveiling of his headstone. I got to keep the gauze veil that shrouded the stone. I keep it in my pillowcase. My mom says that I shouldn't keep the veil so close to me, that I should let her wash it and stuff. I told her it's not the same if you wash it. Then the smell of the cemetery will go away, and I don't want it to. I told her, "That's the smell of where Dad is." She said, "Your dad isn't really there." I said that his skeleton was there. She said, "Skeleton, shmeleton, go do your homework."