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Author Archive

Dead Celebrity

by on Mar.19, 2009, under Uncategorized

Dead Celebrity FACT 1: I go by the name of DJ Person, except in Jersey where they call me Poison. You probably heard about my Desert Storm tour, playing to the devil dogs outside of Faluja because in my opinion, the music scene in Baghdad is not what it was. So. The ongoing arrangement I have with Jimmy the Shoe reaches its use-by date toward the end of summer, 1993. Jimmy drops by the Jersey studio to welcome me home. One minute we’re doing Bollie and Bolivian Brown, the next I’m lying in a ditch in Ridgewood. A couple of kids nudging my legs with their Nikes, kneel down to feel for a pulse, jump back. I open my eyes behind my ‘Bans and watch them pointing at all the places on my body that still hurt. They go through my pockets, stare at the tell-tale dreadlocks. Then the penny drops—shit, it’s that DJ. The older girl jumps up, says run for it. I grind my teeth and will my arm out—a forest fire bearing down on my chest—grab her by the ankle. Pee runs down her legs, trickles warm across my knuckles around her ankle. I tighten my grip. With my free hand, I take off the ‘Bans, show them what Jimmy did to my eyes. Drool bungies from the lip of her kid brother. I float off for a time on the nausea, my heart’s on fire, a chill so bone-deep I shiver. Feel the cell-phone drop back onto my chest to land on a broken rib with an incredibly painful thunk. I wait for the wallet but it doesn’t come and I wince on the inside—I was that savvy once. I hear her whimper but will she find the strength to scream? Or barf all over me instead. Time is not my friend. My ears fill with the bloody tears I weep at the fear of not being alive. Sounds like the beach. Places I’ve been. I hold on tight to her bony ankle. Turn to the child.
‘Learn,’ I say. ‘To forget.’
(continue reading…)

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Good Old Dave

by on Feb.16, 2009, under Uncategorized

Dave needed to talk to someone so he took out his thing. This was always a good conversation starter—his thing—flashed at the girls from the bushes and behind bins around the station. It was often the only way to get them talking, Dave found, and Dave didn’t mind a good chat. But this girl was different and he could tell that from day one. He flashed it at her once, twice, but she never stopped. Just kept right on walking, looking neither right nor left, but not quite straight ahead either. It was driving him crazy. So one rainy morning he grunted at her to make her stop and look at him or look at IT at least and scream perv or flasher which were, after all, acknowledgments better than none. At his grunt, she did stop. But then all she said with wonky eyes staring at nothing (or maybe something) was “who’s there?” Punched her white stick in the air like a wand. Dave could see no fear in her those crazy deepset eyes, and in the rain-spattered tilt of her face, only a simple curiosity:
“Who are you ?” she said.
So Dave, naked then and exposed before god, was finally able to put away his thing.
“I am Dave,” he said.

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Zombie Day

by on Feb.10, 2009, under Uncategorized

It was a zombie day. One of them sat on a branch of the old box gum across the street, eating his own entrails. The sky so grey, the streetlights so sulphurous. Night had not come. It would never come. The zombies on the porch next door were making a meal out of Mrs Baldacci. I remembered Mrs Baldacci’s nettle risotto. I’d never eat that again. So many experiences gone forever. I licked my lips. Elaine lay still beside me. One half of her face bitten like a cookie, but that didn’t spoil her beauty. Not to me.

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