in perhaps a show of boredom with $ the first annual morethangalenandmiles writing contest $, i only got three entries for the second round. i don't really know of a particular voting method, so let's say that whoever gets the most votes in the comment box by 8 in the evening on wednesday is the champion. not that i can stop you, but only voting once seems the most honest. good luck, thanks.
1) Hello Jack, I say. He’s not really listening. No, he’s not really listening. Jack, instead, is playing with shadows and walking down the sidewalk playing with shadows and not listening.
Jack, be careful with your bounty. There will be a man and this man will want to take what it is that you value and he will give you danger in a felt tight sack. I tell him this, but he only walks down past playing with shadows.
Jack is whistling now and doing tricks like yo-yo gimmicks and ups and downs and cheap feats and children’s treats. Jack is not prepared for what is about to happen.
It is three in the afternoon and the market is alive. The market is a rotting fox carcass through a fast-motion lens; there are too many people. Jack is a little scared, but he thinks of his mother and he thinks of the food he has not eaten in too long, how long? he cannot count. Twenty dollars, Jack. That is what your mother told you.
A man buried in poverty comes up to Jack. The man, thinks Jack, smells like a step dad. Not inherently evil, but not inherently good. I tell Jack not to trust this man, but I am not audible. I am a brisk of wind, a finger dragged across the back of the neck and replaced by the scratch of the hand. Jack does not have a need for me. There is a desperation in the eye of poverty like the seal of a virgin. An oil spill honesty, the man presents Jack with a touching story book-ended by bullshit.
The man pets Jack’s cow and circles around the beast like a Westminster judge. The cow is not a blue ribbon; the cow does not make milk. The man thinks with a silly face. He thinks by making a face that says: I know this game better than you, son. The cow does not look American. Her ribs ride through like she has no air in her lungs and her body has already been raped of its meat. Jack, I say, make your way out. This man is a coyote and has ill intentions. Feed your friend with your neighbors plot, and she will give you what you need. Jack still doesn’t hear me.
2) For Whitney
When I met God today, I was surprised to find out that she’s a woman. But that didn’t stop me from asking her to dinner. She invited me back to her place where she offered me her body. We began on the divan.
Later we moved to God’s bathroom. She has a large mirror on the wall above her vanity. I liked it. I could watch myself fuck God from behind. She began to thrust powerfully back into me. I stumbled backward into her towel rack, a thin metal horizontal bar. It snapped in the center, and the two halves clattered to the floor.
Without looking she knew what had happened, but regardless, she asked me: “What did you do?”
“It wasn’t me. It was your power ass.”
It didn’t take long to find out God’s forgiveness is not eternal.
3) It was the worst day ever; the kind of day when the L train says "FUCK YOU hipsters stay where you belong and I'll just shuttle you from Union to Bedford and you can fester in the East Village until your one pair of pants is worn to threads and your B.O. makes the dogs crawl away in disgust and don't even try moving further into Brooklyn you can't handle it."
That kind of day, when a guy on the street takes up the whole sidewalk because he's attached a plastic bag to an umbrella and is using it to smear dog shit all over the pavement for no reason. When you're writing an awful paper about falconry in The Taming of the Shrew and it's your last paper ever for undergrad and you've printed it and are walking to hand it in when you realize you've left out the bibliography and it's two minutes to deadline so you have to say fuck it. When the 86-year-old receptionist at the publishing company you work for asks you to plug the cord of his computer mouse into the hard drive, which requires kneeling on the floor and bending over until you're under the desk with your legs in a short skirt and heels poking out for his special view. When one friend asks you to come along to the awkward birthday and stay as late as she needs because her ass hole friend is freezing her out and she needs you to act as her buffer but your roommate calls because she's locked out and needs you to come home as soon as possible. When another friend borrowed your earrings last week and forgot to tell you she lost one but when you ask if you can have them back she says, "I feel sooo bad. I'll replace them," and you have to try not to sound bitchy and pathetic when you say, "Yeah, they were my mom's from the 80s so don't worry about it I don't think you'll find them. I'll try to make this one into a necklace."
When your vendor makes your coffee wrong, and everyone's half an hour later than they say they'll be for things they invited you to, and no amount of beers manages to get you drunk enough. That kind of day.
So when you get to 8th Ave to rush home and let your roommate in and it's 11:59PM on one of those weekends when the L goes wonky like a motherfucker and the guards tell you to "take a ticket and catch the M14 to Union" and you say fuck the M14 so you walk and beat the bus, but when you hit the platform a train is pulling out and the next one won't come for 32 minutes and then it comes and you make it to Bedford and wait 25 more minutes and finally snag one of those fold-out seats that you're supposed to give up for handicapped people, who you never see on the train anyway, you're bound to think, "This is going to be the day that a handicapped person needs my seat," but you close your eyes and lean back and it feels amazing. But as the train pulls out and you open your eyes just for a second because even after this fucking day you're all wired, you can't be surprised when a blind man is hovering over you and you have to add not giving up your seat to a handicapped person to the list of things that makes it the shittiest day ever.