Lens Cleaner

He'd watched Joyce's right hand resting, wrist up on her knee, for the entire ride home that day. She'd pinched the bridge of her aquamarine bifocals between her thumb and index finger as if escorting a specimen to a laboratory. When she'd walked into their bedroom, she pulled a supple lens cloth from her bedside table and swabbed it smoothly across the left lens capturing a sample of the coarse grit of their son's ashes. When she was done, she'd placed the cloth into a tiny plastic zip-pouch, and tucked it away. On her way out of the room, she'd dropped the glasses into her pink plastic wastebasket with a hollow plunk that neither startled nor soothed either of them. Today, the loose ends of her illness, their life together sufficiently cauterized, Omar rescued the sealed up lens cloth from it's place in her nightstand drawer, and moved it to his side of the bed.

Ventura Highway in the Sunshine

Jonah touched down in the middle of the southbound lane, tallons clicking against the asphalt as he paced slightly east then west, dismayed by the flock of crows feasting on the tender, dew-kissed fawn. His breath quickened to a soft huff as he struggled to figure how to squeeze in among their sharp, eager beaks and join them in ripping strands of moist pink flesh. A bold male scuttled up and pecked once at Jonah's creamy underbelly, leaving a streak of the deer's blood on the fluffy down and startling Jonah who grabbed a wingful of air and pumped against it, lifting himself high enough to kick the crow away. His tallon plunged through the silky black feathers, through the brittle shell of the crow's skull and caught in the squishy gel of his brain. Jonah began to kick frantically trying to shake the crow loose, but came away with bits of bone and syrupy blood coating his craggy skin and collecting granules of sand from the road as he backed away, sending the feasting flock into the air while the shattered crow spilled onto the road and scavenger flies set to work on the leaking blood. Jonah stepped forward, gently shaking the sticky grit from his claw and sunk his beak into the fawn's cooling belly and tore a satisfying chunk of delicate meat away.

What Color is Your Masochism?

accounting+finance
admin/office
arch/engineering
art/media/design
biotech/science
business/mgmt
customer service
education
food/bev/hosp
general labor
government
human resources
internet engineers
legal/paralegal
manufacturing
marketing/pr/ad
medical/health
nonprofit sector
real estate
retail/wholesale
sales/biz dev
salon/spa/fitness
security
skilled trade/craft
software/qa/dba
systems/network
tech support
transport
tv/film/video
web/info design
writing/editing
etc.

Oye, pendejo!

Dear Sir on 24th & Treat St., SF:

"Ya estuvo" means quit trying to stab people. The silly knife fight is over. None of your friends feel like identifying your corpse, or testifying against you in a murder trial, so put down the muthafuckin swithblade. Ya estuvo, homie, ya estuvo.

Haiku for H**ko

surf couch, stalk girlfriend

buy some teeth, grow some balls you

washed up punk rock bitch

Housemate Haiku

1

slimy lettuce weeps

your tonic water’s gone flat

where is my butter?

2

bouquet of mold spores
colors bloom in soiled pint glass
please wash some dishes

3

bright green chunks of phlegm

clinging to shared shower floor

fucking hate that shit

Moondrops

Marilyn's ruffled collar rested gracefully on her clavicle, the sheer ivory silk complementing the tailored periwinkle lapel of her Sunday jacket. Her daughter, Constance, in the next car suppressed a grin, proud to have gotten the thing on her mother today. Sunday indeed. It was Marilyn's most stylish outfit, but for years she'd refused to wear it, citing that at her age there wasn't an occasion special enough for such a well-made suit of clothes. But today Constance got to see the product of so many hours of conscientious stitching adorning her beloved mother. And without the orange lipstick for once.


"It's called Persian Melon"

"I'm sorry to break it to you, but that is bright orange."

"I've been told that warm tones suit me. I like it."

"Mother, why do you think Revlon Moondrops #585 is the only orange lipstick at the store? Because no one else is foolish enough to wear such a god-awful color on their face. I think the Newberry stocks it specifically for you."

"Well that's very nice of them." She smiled and turned back to face the mirror and clip on her pearl earrings.

"I just wish you could see yourself sometimes. You're such a beautiful woman and you ruin it with all that garbage you put on."

"Well, I don't think it's garbage. This is how I've always dressed. This is how I've always worn my make-up. I don't see why I have to change who I am now because it doesn't suit you. You're welcome to change with every fad that comes along. You're young, you're supposed to. But let me be."

"It's not about fads, it's about knowing what works for you."

"This works for me, dear."


But today Constance got her way. The sun glinted brightly on the late morning caravan, seeming to her simultaneously appropriate and not. She was pleased with her mother's appearance. She'd gotten up early, long before anyone else in the house to go down and fix her mother up. When Constance walked into the room, Marilyn was a clean slate, ready for her make-over. She lay quietly while Constance applied soft, natural-hued powders and creams gingerly not to disturb her mother's cool, delicate skin. Marylin didn't argue for once, didn't insist on Persian Melon. The transformation was remarkable. When Constance was done she could only describe her mother as looking altogether natural.

She'd pressed the suit the night before and selected appropriate accessories. Constance gave in on the earrings. Her mother loved them, and anyway they matched the silk blouse and the pearl buttons on the jacket. Marilyn's joints were a little stiffer than usual, but Constance was used to the silent struggle of tugging fabric over her mother's arthritic limbs. As she arranged the collar, she thought an occasion special enough, but didn't dare say this out loud.

Now, in the passenger seat of her daughter's late-model coup, Constance glanced at the police officer next to her window and thought he looked out of place, riding along so slowly on his motorcycle. She slid her right hand into her special occasion purse and pulled out a marbled emerald tube of Persian Melon, #585. She removed the cap, twisted up the stump of waxy orange lipstick, and breathed in its sweet, oily, vaguely floral smell. Without looking at a mirror for guidance, she applied an even layer of her mother's signature shade to her own lips, then covered her face with her cold, dry palms.