October 2024
Bio Note: I'm looking into getting a NYC production of "Willem and the Werewolf." Wish me luck.
Three Women
Three women meet and tell each other their stories.
They are amazed at the similarities. Each is in her twenties,
skinny, with bones for hips; each has sunken eyes,
hair spiky on top, wispy down her neck.
Each wears a stud in her navel, and all three
navels are visible, below ratty T-shirts, above
the frayed waistbands of blue jeans.
Each has, above her jutting left pelvic bone,
a discoloration. Each, in turn, tugs down on
a belt loop, till it shows purple, the shape of
an archipelago, more like a birthmark
than a bruise, but each confesses
the discoloration is recent.
To get to the meat of it, each
of these women has had sex with aliens.
Apparently they are the aliens' type,
though they distrust each other, and would acknowledge no likeness.
Each wonders if the others are holding back secrets.
There should be more, each thinks, than this purple spot
and a burning, similar to a yeast infection
except for the pulsing, and a faint hum—
a guy sitting near them, staring into his beer, thinks
he hears a chromatic chord, rising and falling,
though where it comes from, he would not hazard a guess.
Traplines
Death laid traplines along
a lakefront in central Maine. He
had no business being there. A poacher. He was dressed
inconspicuously, a plaid work shirt,
thermal underwear showing
through frayed elbows, denim pants
rolled up at the cuffs. Only his boots
aroused suspicion--Timberland, or
maybe L. L. Bean, they were new,
scarcely worn. Two toned. I later learned
from an ancient text, which of course
did not mention brand names, that Death
is particular about footwear.
I followed
from a distance, for a short while, then went
back to my cabin, covered myself
with a thermal blanket, waited the night.
In the morning, I went back
to follow the trapline,
but the traps were gone.
I did find a muddy
footprint, just the one. Recognized
the pattern of the sole. L. L. Bean.
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