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"Limbo: Altered States"
--Mary Karr
"On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous"
--Ocean Vuong
"Dinosaurs in the Hood"
--Danez Smith
"Flirtation"
After all, there's no need
to say anything
at first. An orange, peeled
and quartered, flares
like a tulip on a wedgewood plate
Anything can happen.
Outside the sun
has rolled up her rugs
and night strewn salt
across the sky. My heart
is humming a tune
I haven't heard in years!
Quiet's cool flesh--
let's sniff and eat it.
There are ways
to make of the moment
a topiary
so the pleasure's in
walking through.
--Rita Dove
No sooner does the plane angle up than I cork off to dream a bomb blast: A fireball roiling through the cabin in slo-mo, seat blown loose from its bolts, I hang weightless a nanosecond in blue space then jerk awake to ordered rows. And there's the silver liquor cart jangling its thousand bells, the perfect doses of juniper gin and oak-flavored scotch held by a rose-nailed hand. I don't miss drinking, don't miss driving into shit with more molecular density than myself, nor the Mission Impossible reruns I sat before, nor the dead space inside only alcohol could fill and then not even. But I miss the aftermath, the pure simplicity: mouth parched, head hissing static. How little I asked of myself then--to suck the next breath, suffer the next heave, live till cocktail hour when I could mix the next sickness. I locked the bathroom door, sat on the closed commode, shirtless, in filmy underpants telling myself that death could fit my grasp and be staved off while in the smeary shaving glass, I practiced the stillness of a soul awaiting birth. For the real that swarmed beyond the door I was pure scorn, dead center of my stone and starless universe, orbited by no one. Novitiate obliterate, Saint Absence, Duchess of Naught... A stinging ether folded me in mist. Sometimes landing the head's pressure's enormous. When my plane tilts down, houses grow large, streets lose their clear geometry. The leafy earth soon fills my portal, and in the gray graveyard of cars, a stick figure becomes my son in royal blue cap flapping his arms as if to rise. Thank god for our place in this forest of forms, for the gravitas that draws me back to him, and for how lightly lightly I touch down.
--Mary Karr
"On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous"
i Tell me it was for the hunger & nothing less. For hunger is to give the body what it knows it cannot keep. That this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest. i You, drowning between my arms-- stay. You, pushing your body into the river only to be left with yourself-- stay. i I'll tell you how we're wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after backhanding mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls. And so I learned that a man, in climax, was the closest thing to surrender. i Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade. Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn. Say autumn despite the green in your eyes. Beauty despite daylight. Say you'd kill for it. Unbreakable dawn mounting in your throat. My thrashing beneath you like a sparrow stunned with falling. i Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining. i I wanted to disappear--so I opened the door to a stranger's car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don't we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother's house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky--to hold every flying & falling at once. i Say amen. Say amend. Say yes. Say yes anyway. i In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed. i In the life before this one, you could tell two people were in love because when they drove the pickup over the bridge, their wings would grow back just in time. Some days I am still inside the pickup. Some days I keep waiting. i It's not too late. Our heads haloed with gnats & summer too early to leave any marks. Your hand under my shirt as static intensifies on the radio. Your other hand pointing your daddy's revolver to the sky. Stars falling one by one in the cross hairs. This means I won't be afraid if we're already here. Already more than skin can hold. That a body beside a body must make a field full of ticking. That your name is only the sound of clocks being set back another hour & morning finds our clothes on your mother's front porch, shed like week-old lilies.
--Ocean Vuong
"Dinosaurs in the Hood"
Let's make a movie called Dinosaurs in the Hood. Jurassic Park meets Friday meets The Pursuit of Happyness. There should be a scene where a little black boy is playing with a toy dinosaur on the bus, then looks out the window & sees the T. Rex, because there has to be a T. Rex. Don't let Tarantino direct this. In his version, the boy plays with a gun, the metaphor: black boys toy with their own lives, the foreshadow to his end, the spitting image of his father. Fuck that, the kid has a plastic Brontosaurus or Triceratops & this is his proof of magic or God or Santa. I want a scene where a cop car gets pooped on by a pterodactyl, a scene where the corner store turns into a battle ground. Don't let the Wayans brothers in this movie. I don't want any racist shit about Asian people or overused Latino stereotypes. This movie is about a neighborhood of royal folks-- children of slaves & immigrants & addicts & exiles--saving their town from real-ass dinosaurs. I don't want some cheesy yet progressive Hmong sexy hot dude hero with a funny yet strong commanding black girl buddy-cop film. This is not a vehicle for Will Smith & Sofia Vergara. I want grandmas on the front porch taking out raptors with guns they hid in walls & under mattresses. I want those little spitty, screamy dinosaurs. I want Cicely Tyson to make a speech, maybe two. I want Viola Davis to save the city in the last scene with a black fist afro pick through the last dinosaur's long, cold-blood neck. But this can't be a black movie. This can't be a black movie. This movie can't be dismissed because of its cast or its audience. This movie can't be a metaphor for black people & extinction. This movie can't be about race. This movie can't be about black pain or cause black people pain. This movie can't be about a long history of having a long history with hurt. This movie can't be about race. Nobody can say nigga in this movie who can't say it to my face in public. No chicken jokes in this movie. No bullets in the heroes. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. Besides, the only reason I want to make this is for that first scene anyway: the little black boy on the bus with a toy dinosaur, his eyes wide & endless his dreams possible, pulsing, & right there.
--Danez Smith
"Flirtation"
After all, there's no need
to say anything
at first. An orange, peeled
and quartered, flares
like a tulip on a wedgewood plate
Anything can happen.
Outside the sun
has rolled up her rugs
and night strewn salt
across the sky. My heart
is humming a tune
I haven't heard in years!
Quiet's cool flesh--
let's sniff and eat it.
There are ways
to make of the moment
a topiary
so the pleasure's in
walking through.
--Rita Dove