Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, covid19, Poetry, The Potty Mouth Interviews

Breaking News: Ma Interviews Donald Trump

On Juneteenth, Ma interviews @realDonaldTrump before he heads to Tulsa, Oklahoma for the first rally of his 2020 reelection campaign. No animals or humans were harmed during this interview. We’re not sure what happened after.

Ma: Mr. “President”, you’re headed to Tulsa, Oklahoma for a big ass #MAGA rally where there’s also a major spike in Covid-19 hospitalizations. Patients are inundating hospitals and overwhelming the healthcare system. By ‘inundating’ I mean that a lot of sick ass people are swamping the hospitals because they’re very very sick. By “swamping” the hospitals I mean very very sick people are overrunning the concrete building in which sick ass people go to get help. Patients are taxing the local healthcare system and putting nurses and doctors at risk of death. By “taxing” I mean the money that you never pay to the federal government because you’re a fraud and a cheat. By fraud and cheat see @realDonaldTrump. Anyway, wtf do you have to say for yourself?

Ma: Seriously, wtf is your problem?

Ma: Mr. “President”, aren’t you shooting your supporters in the face by holding this rally in an enclosed space for an extended period of time?

Ma: Why is Tulsa, Oklahoma so important to you?

Ma: What?

Ma: Are you saying that we shouldn’t test and that would make the pandemic go away?

Ma: Mr. “President”, as of today, there’ve been 121,000+ Covid-19 related deaths in the United States. I’m starting to lose my paint chips. What do you have to say about these deaths and to the rally-goers you’ll put at risk?

Ma: Is the pandemic under control in America?

Ma: I get the impression that you don’t care about the American people or your supporters. In fact, it seems like you want to make love to the stock market. (My daughter laughs and says you don’t know how to make love.) Mr. “President”, do you know how to make love?

Ma: Mr. “President”, I get the impression you don’t like yourself.

Ma: Mr. “President”, what makes you happy?

Ma: Mr. “President”, what do you love most?

Ma: If you could be anything, Mr. “President”, what would you be?

Ma: How will history remember you?

Ma: Mr. “President”, let’s reflect upon the last 3 years. Despite being a total piece of shit, I’m mean, the combined sewage systems of New York City, Philadelphia and Atlanta, what would you say is your greatest accomplishment as “President”?

Ma: What’s your 2nd biggest accomplishment?

Ma: Sorry, Mr. “President”. I couldn’t hear you. Care to repeat your answer?

Ma: Dude, what’s your 2nd biggest accomplishment as “President”?

Ma: Ok, so, your 2nd biggest accomplishment is closing the border and ending flights. Whatever happened to the wall?

Ma: I was a hooker once. Not surprised you gave $19.9 million to improve Hooker’s Point. Do you know “Hooker’s Point”?

Ma: Mr. “President”, I’m tired of your bullshit. I’m tired of your “Presidency”. I’m tired of your license to destroy the lives of working class Americans. It’s been unprecedented and everyday it seems like a new precedent is set. By “precedent” I don’t mean “President.” I, like 30+ million other Americans, are unemployed. I need to feed my kid. I need to feed my self. I need a roof over my head. I need health insurance. I need a surgical mask. Look at me. Not those. Look at me here. Into my eyes. Do you have any regrets?

Ma: Are you fucking serious? That’s it?

Ma: I’m sorry, Mr. “President”. It’s just a pen. I’m a journalist. I write shit. One last chance, any regrets?

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Poetry, Random Shit

The Theory of Color

emission spectrum of iron
emission spectrum of iron

Once upon a time, Yellow met Blue. Yellow was high and his face was blue, probably because of all the smoke in his chest. Blue thought, this is cool. Yellow can hold his breath for a long time while smiling and dancing with a broom. Clowns are never blue. The room was always smokey. Jumbo jets the size of parked cars flew overhead.

This one day, the day Yellow and Blue were in Blue’s red car, Blue asked Yellow what’s new. Nothing new, said Yellow, the look on his face was bearish. Blue hardly believed Yellow because Blue knew things about the world–like statistics and math. Science never lies like religion lies, he thought (or thinks). Yellow was full of God and shit.

Yellow: _____________________________.

Silence is like math. It’s invisible but reveals the universe. How things work and don’t work. How we travel from point A to point B in this or that amount of time. The calorie(s) of a black bean.

Blue: Are you sure?

Yellow: I’m sure.

Then one day in the month of Halloween, because this month is when those (or these) things happen, Blue took Yellow to the zoo in his red car. It was filled with caged pants and shirts, the zoo, not the car. Sofas and pillows.Things used like books that were never and will never be read. These animals were not like the animals in any zoo or the wild. They didn’t consume oxygen or protein. They were like stars: permanent, but not really.

Binary Stars: binary stars are locked in an eternal dance; or a dance that ends when one star crashes into another under the direct influence of gravity; sometimes gravity overwhelms and destroys the things we love the most, like strawberry ice cream and primary colors.

In the parking lot, which was really metered street parking, these two colors, Yellow & Blue, began to phase, or fizz, beneath the bearded sky. This was before the invention of moustaches. Blue looked around Yellow’s eyes and began to notice green and orange, brown and magenta, aquamarine and a billion shades of unidentifiable colors, busting out like broken, abstract lines. Blue recognized the color of radiation on Yellow’s face–a sort of unsubstantiated substance born out of bad weather.

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Yellow: Now, I have a reason to live.

Blue: You do. You did.

The car ride home was not a ride. It no longer mattered that the sky was blue because it was just what they could see when they were looking for blue–perceptual shifts are the province of aliens. The car was not blue. Yellow was not Blue. They were not blue. The car was not a car. It was a bike made out of recycled car parts.

Blue: Just breathe.

Yellow: I always do.

Blue: Ok.

Yellow staring out the window.

Color theory states that all colors posses a particular meaning that are somehow fixed and immutable like iron or the Word, but those meanings can be repossessed and renamed by psychology, or men who wear pants to the beach. Math can’t govern the universe like emotions can.

The guy on the beach was reading a book. He looked like Yellow. The tarpon hunted a school of fish, their silvery backs breaching the surface marked a kill–the exact moment of death. The guy on the beach was reading a book that looked blue. The boys in the water photographed the tarpon breaching the surface. The moon was always the moon even though it looked like a sugar cookie. The guy on the beach was reading a book that looked blue, but it wasn’t a book. It was not Blue.

The flip flops were waiting for something else to wear.

Yellow: Do you remember the moon?

Blue: I hate fire to the core.

Finally, before the beach, before the red car parked in a metered world, before the night with the dancing broom, Yellow and Blue met a man wearing blue jeans and a white coat. He stood next to a window. He said things in two languages–each word a vibration, each language a new color spectrum. It sounded like God, Blue said. It did, Yellow said.

There was a pie chart and everything was color-coded.

**Note on the Emission Spectrum: “The emission spectrum of a chemical element or chemical compound is the spectrum of frequencies of electromagnetic radiation emitted due to an atom or molecule making a transition from a high energy state to a lower energy state. The energy of the emitted photon is equal to the energy difference between the two states. There are many possible electron transitions for each atom, and each transition has a specific energy difference. This collection of different transitions, leading to different radiated wavelengths, make up an emission spectrum. Each element’s emission spectrum is unique. Therefore, spectroscopy can be used to identify the elements in matter of unknown composition. Similarly, the emission spectra of molecules can be used in chemical analysis of substances.”

Posted in Culture Clash, Poetry

A Defense Against Sound & Order

In a time of names

a spoken antelope hopes

for mud and insects.

 

Mud and insects or

whatever uncle measures

informs a notion

 

of a dismantled

ship. Hope passes for a gun

in a time of names.

 

*collage haiku using found text

Posted in Poetry

Let’s Save the Planet by Sandra Simonds

Just as diamond is not real cubic zirconium

this poem is not really

THE END OF TIME

nor the diamond mouth that I check

nightly against African-mined cell phone

chip minerals to say “I balance you,”

a phrase that opens, originates, accounts

in rotting meat poodle skirts

that resist police officer radar guns

in timed successes

and dress in meaningful meat poodle skirt disguises,

(for the leash, sew on 14 pieces

of sequins)

because the more I say it, the more

likely it will be this poem is a really

a cool African mined Leonardo Dicaprio,

(cut dog ears from off-white

piece of felt) &

(everyone has seen

the hypothetical asteroid hit the hypothetical earth

on YouTube), the orgasm’s crux—

a ripped up high jinks, the creamy

particles of the American housing

market unearthed and then spurting

on fancy clutches of hair

that grow from dead creamed skulls,

that sing cantos from dead diamond

mouths and radiate the new spirit,

in onion sprouts

from their metacarpals cracking

in the outpost’s burial ground.

And just as the organic little girl walks across

a field camp, finds green shoots,

pulls them up for her mama’s soup,

our carbon

is tilted

and nursed in flag

formations to make diamond

flame. Carbon so

cradled and bathed—

how the baby carbon says gaga mama

with its rattle and bonked bones,

miniature fingers and miniature head—

the way we pinpoint carbon,

pressure it into gross abandon,

into adopting a stance

of original rotting

meat poodle skirts, the way we force

carbon to collapse in on itself

like dogs cut out of Sweden,

like Viking ship women back to the asteroid,

whose fingers knit

carbon hills and carbon keeps rolling along

the fault lines, in galactic hissy fits, and then the hills

call their lovers on cell phones

and the digits keep rolling.

 

Read Sandra Simonds Potty Mouth Interview with Neil de la Flor here.

Sandra Simonds is currently finishing a second full-length collection of poems called Mother was a Tragic Girl which will be published by Cleveland State University Poetry Center in 2012. She is the author of Warsaw Bikini (Bloof Books, 2008), which was a finalist for numerous prizes including the National Poetry Series; she is also the author of several chapbooks including Used White Wife (Grey Book Press, 2009) and The Humble Travelogues of Mr. Ian Worthington, Written from Land & Sea (Cy Gist, 2006). Her poems have been published in many journals such as Poetry, The Believer, the Colorado Review, Fence, the New Orleans Review and Lana Turner. Her Creative Nonfiction has been published in Post Road and other literary journals. She currently lives in Tallahassee, Florida and is an Assistant Professor of English at Thomas University.