Master Cleanse (ST)

Master Cleanse

Abigail’s new friends were pretty into flushing the toxins out of their systems.
They were passionate about wheatgrass
and three-day juice fasts.
Was this what bound them together?
Abigail tried a juice fast
just to be polite, but it made her feel
like a space cloud,  all roiling dust.

Magic Show (ST)

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Magic Show

For my next act I will disappear, my best friend says
but that’s one trick everybody knows.

Things I’ve Read and Loved in Recent Times (ST)

1.) George Saunders’ article on Dubai, “The New Mecca.” Originally written for GQ, this essay alternates between gee-whiz appreciation for Dubai’s apparent perfection of the luxury industry (villas with private swimming pools, a seven-star hotel shaped like a sailboat, a theme resort built to replicate an ancient Arab village, complete with wind towers and 2.3 miles of fake creeks) and distinctly non-preachy, humanist concern with the wide range of issues connected to the flourishing city: class, racism, post-9/11 international relations, workers’ rights. Whenever I read a travel essay like this, particulary from a tony magazine, I pretty much expect the writer to hate the place they went and do a lot of hand-wringing.  What I liked best about this essay is that Saunders has a good time, just by staying open. He talks to everybody; he’s not too self-conscious to take pleasure in a fun ride at a themed water park or in eating champagne and strawberries while watching a desert sunset. His trip leads him to feel, overall, positive about the human race. I guess you could argue he engages in some hand-wringing, but it doesn’t feel like hand-wringing, just genuine concern and curiosity. The essay appears in his collection The Braindead Megaphone; you can listen to an excerpt here.

Train station ghosts at the (DF)

The train comes and goes
and leaves the station empty.
Water drops from the street above
plink in puddles they’ve created,
and the sound speaks down
dark tunnels.

The doors close, the train kisses
this stop goodbye and whistles
off into the black tunnel.
The doors close and the train
takes the young with it.

old poem, still untitled (DF)

Disaster doesn’t “strike.”

It waits until we find it.

 

We hold banisters

To keep from floating off—

We commit television interviews.

Somehow, we are sucked into that cabal

As part of a vague promise,

          lurching forward until we’re

Incarnated in our own vicious dreams.

 

Guest Google Poem: “How does”

how does it work

how does solar power work

how does the human brain work 

 

how does it feel to die

 

how does the thermometer work

how does fluoride work

 

how does it feel to be loved

how does this work

how does a kite fly

 

 

-Erin Wexstten

Google Poem: “Where is” (DF)

Where is my refund?

Where is the love?

 

Where is Chuck Norris?

Where is my mind?

 

Where is the G Spot?

Google: “Where am I” (DF)

Where am I from

 

where am I in the process

where am I did anyone see my pants

Looking Through Old Pictures (DF)

There is the vascular restriction of life

as it stands

            the heartache of waving goodbye to yourself

            putting yourself on the bus

            the tail lights red and sad

                        as you pull away.

 

And letting go in this moment

            walking home from the bus stop

   into your home, where everything is

   strange again, as you feared it would be

the last time you did this.

 

To the world-haters (DF)

One should try not to be separated

 

from the beauty of the world

or what is beautiful in it

            (to be diplomatic)

            (to the world-haters)

            (who are many)

            (myself sometimes included)

for even one moment.