Marie Lecrivain is a Puschart Prize nominee and is the executive editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles. Her latest book of poetry, Antebellum Messiah (copyright 2009 Sybaritic Press), is available through Amazon.com.
Social Darwinism #5: Time Displacement Scenarios
Albuquerque, NM 1:55 p.m.
A legal secretary from the firm of Yours, Mine and Ours, LLC is fucking the mailroom supervisor in the parking lot stairwell. In his hurried zeal, the supervisor forgets to put the condom on properly, which will cost the secretary half a personal day and $100 at a clinic that is not covered by her insurance plan.
Anchorage, AK 6:39 p.m.
At The Northern Lights Bar, the ice cubes for White Russians are not sickle-and-hammer shaped, and, contrary to popular opinion, the few local Aleutians do not rub their noses together as a prelude to intercourse.
Los Angeles, 12:36 p.m.
If I were home right now, I would be engaging in one of the following; watching a King of the Hill rerun on FX, masturbating to the tune of Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street" or, sorting through various employment scams on Craigslist in the vain hope that I can score a job that pays one-and-half-times more than minimum wage while I imbibe a Rum and Diet Coke.
New Orleans, LA, 2:43 p.m.
Thankfully, the high-water mark of Hurricane Katrina never made it to Bourbon Street and the French Quarter, a fact that the aging Eurasian painter-turned-prostitute revels in as she rolls over in bed. As she gazes into the mirror opposite, she is relieved that she can still pass for 19, thanks to a combination of humidity, Filipino genes and making sure that she only appears in low lit bars and nightclubs, and never before 9 pm…
Chicago, IL, 8:49 p.m.
In transit from New York to Los Angeles, the assassin stares out at the tarmac. He judges a city by the state of its airport, and since O'Hare is ugly, he naturally assumes that Chicago is the same. This is based on his limited observations during a four hour layover, where he ran into nothing but stinking, rude drunks who took the last good table at the airport Chili's and didn't bother to flush the toilets in the public restrooms. No, he concludes, not worth a visit…
Washington DC, 4:01 p.m.
While I write this poem, the Talking Heads are still debating the stimulus package. The newly appointed savior is in the Oval Office playing Hangman on his Blackberry and wonders when he will get to take a joyride in the Marine One helicopter.
New York, NY 4:13 p.m.
In sidereal time, several thousand people glance up at the skyline where the Twin Towers of Commerce once stood and remember the fires, the dust, the screams… the chaos… a melody of sighs is followed by a cession of heartbeats in these moments of relived terror – and then the rhythm begins again…
A legal secretary from the firm of Yours, Mine and Ours, LLC is fucking the mailroom supervisor in the parking lot stairwell. In his hurried zeal, the supervisor forgets to put the condom on properly, which will cost the secretary half a personal day and $100 at a clinic that is not covered by her insurance plan.
Anchorage, AK 6:39 p.m.
At The Northern Lights Bar, the ice cubes for White Russians are not sickle-and-hammer shaped, and, contrary to popular opinion, the few local Aleutians do not rub their noses together as a prelude to intercourse.
Los Angeles, 12:36 p.m.
If I were home right now, I would be engaging in one of the following; watching a King of the Hill rerun on FX, masturbating to the tune of Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street" or, sorting through various employment scams on Craigslist in the vain hope that I can score a job that pays one-and-half-times more than minimum wage while I imbibe a Rum and Diet Coke.
New Orleans, LA, 2:43 p.m.
Thankfully, the high-water mark of Hurricane Katrina never made it to Bourbon Street and the French Quarter, a fact that the aging Eurasian painter-turned-prostitute revels in as she rolls over in bed. As she gazes into the mirror opposite, she is relieved that she can still pass for 19, thanks to a combination of humidity, Filipino genes and making sure that she only appears in low lit bars and nightclubs, and never before 9 pm…
Chicago, IL, 8:49 p.m.
In transit from New York to Los Angeles, the assassin stares out at the tarmac. He judges a city by the state of its airport, and since O'Hare is ugly, he naturally assumes that Chicago is the same. This is based on his limited observations during a four hour layover, where he ran into nothing but stinking, rude drunks who took the last good table at the airport Chili's and didn't bother to flush the toilets in the public restrooms. No, he concludes, not worth a visit…
Washington DC, 4:01 p.m.
While I write this poem, the Talking Heads are still debating the stimulus package. The newly appointed savior is in the Oval Office playing Hangman on his Blackberry and wonders when he will get to take a joyride in the Marine One helicopter.
New York, NY 4:13 p.m.
In sidereal time, several thousand people glance up at the skyline where the Twin Towers of Commerce once stood and remember the fires, the dust, the screams… the chaos… a melody of sighs is followed by a cession of heartbeats in these moments of relived terror – and then the rhythm begins again…
Updates ::
The Light Society ~ A New Invention
We are shooting our first video for Future Eyes ~ Torie Zalben and Art Center
We are working on a cover for Letters to Angel City ~ Katie Adelsberger.
Visual artist Randall Bass is contributing some of his structural light experiments for The Light Society!
| PALEHOUSE
| BOOKS