Half a Hole
Turned out when the din the twisted neon lights the swaying bodies all evaporated into green sulphury ghosts into boredom into heavy - meaning the fatness of calling it quits Turned out that when you turned up I threw in the towel it was wet and matted stank like mildew squishy under my feet I, just as squishy trampled it good though I became the harpsichord played to broken dilapidated elephant in the room withered and rusty brain tilting to one side a good lean into a hole but just half a hole Deadlock Everyday day at 1:45pm we kick off another round of silence I head out the door drive to the bay watch the waves cut into each other all the seagulls in swift play lurk for lunch Avoidance and I - we get along quite well I’ve stuffed my pockets with hurt they bulge in distress try to conjure up a way to transfer this awful distress pass it onto these ravenous gulls in waiting hunger but to no avail I find myself back home gorged with sadness only to run the gamut again it’s this ritual - this addiction that keeps me going Ride or Die In between your legs sits the red eye of a loon hungry and wanting behind your eyes dwells the mind of a bat shit waif ablaze with envy over the filthy loon hobbling alone along the edge of the storm ridden shore pecking and sifting ready to launch at any movement even a sand worm you’ve seen the shift from glazed purple skies all through speckled stars along the skyline and think the loon has it better in between your loathing and longing lives the ever-slightest seedling of good some little pocket of hope that pulls you along day after scarce day as if you didn’t long so loosely for the loon to be yours for the moon to be yours for the hole in your tainted head to close in the palm of your sweaty hand The Residuals Feel the cold against my skin sharp icy slaps could have driven walked instead to Maritza’s salon can’t do my own hair this is a necessity every four days Today the child is there in the chair agonizing screams while I sit and watch in horror I know something is wrong with her realize she is not a child at all but a little adult I’m late now stare at a roach creeping its way up the wall screams turn to howls the poor creature struggles to twist out of the grasp of her nurse she growls low and long Maritza picks up her left foot crushes the roach with her bright yellow patent pump I walk outside the growling rises into a high-pitched laugh a row of pigeons perch on the phone wire ascend in unison from the vibrations of this cackling pigeon shit on my windshield a ripe smelling homeless person walks by rolling four connected carts each filled to the brim with plastic bottles I just want my hair done I don’t want this cross nor to think of these horrors that are as real as these fierce gusts of wind real as those haunting bellows and my roots that also need a touch up I wish I was next in line for Maritza that nice nurse - taking the poor creature to the salon to get her hair done holding and stroking her bony hands cradling her fragile body Maritza trying so hard to apply the color in quick strokes Sky dark and deadly to a grey black if this were the end of the world who or what besides roaches plastic homeless people and pigeons would replace these screams and where would I go for a blow-out? Chagrin You’re going to hate him again and again his calloused hands initialed shirts perfectly shined shoes Saturday stubble morning erection the way the dog cuddles into him His muscular legs that long winded conversation he took over at that godawful dinner party to save you from stumbling into yourself his deep voice you know where this is going When Catullus said odi et amo (I hate and love) thousands of years ago you think Catullus didn’t know what he was talking about back then? before chivalry before sexting It’s as obvious as which cup you know your lover will choose in the morning glimpse his deep blue eyes as you pour his coffee this is a tragedy of torment that you love to play over and over Bio: Donna Dallas studied creative writing and philosophy at NYU’s Gallatin School and was lucky enough to write under William Packard, founder of the New York Quarterly. She has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, SpillWords and Phantom Kangaroo. Donna serves on the editorial team of Red Fez and New York Quarterly.