"could have buried it but i didn't have a shovel."

hi. hello.

every woman has chin hair.
every woman has a mustache.
every woman has ass crack hair.
every woman has a treasure trail.
every woman has hairy areolas.


and it might get hot. it's up to you.
man, it might get hot.

series of lies #10: best ex-boyfriend of a roommate of mine

he started dating a new girl. i told my room mate that she was a homely girl who just learned how to put make up on last week
& i was playing earth wind & fire* on my iTunes and that is her ex-boyfriend's favorite band and when she asked me if it was in fact earth wind & fire playing i said,
no,
and she looked at me.

...
i just lied, i said.

i know, she grunted.

i don't wanna change it, i said. i changed it and we continued to do our homework. she drew a self portrait and i spent three hours planning my future.

*it is not earth wind & fire but if i said the actual band some things would make too much sense.

series of lies#9: by the by, lying after a lie

i felt i needed to take a step back and be responsible,
"i am not looking for a relationship." before this i had been grey, wishy-
washy and probably. yes, not probably. certainly living on
the fiction of friendships, the curtails of doubt and hope
and he said, "we shall see."

no, we shall not see, i said, setting that beer down.
waves of displeasing inebriation could not keep this one down:
"you're boring and intrusive and
have nothing that i want.

you walk like you don't like the ground
and you can't keep a friend longer than a year.

i can't imagine you smiling and you
assume that what you like is what is likeable about you.

you don't ask questions nor do you really answer mine
and you are okay with passing by in
classes that should define you.

you are a lot of things but you are
not much of
anything."

and then i kissed him.




____

two hours after i wrote this i went to grab the chasers
for another "he"s birthday
and as i cash out with a local brew
from a friend's hometown
i see you with a short hair beloit-person
on the surveillance screen


and i search the smallest liquor store for you
and hope to hell i don't have to say hello

and you are no where

is there another store they're surveilling?
are they re-playing the day?

i thought you were dead?

the cup

"You're so the-glass-is-half-empty." Oh god. Really? How could this have happened? Is that what I'm known as; the-glass-is-half-empty girl? I thought I was just being realistic. Down to earth. Is it too much? Excuse me. I had no idea. It's hard to be perky and optimistic; the-glass-is-always-nearly-fucking-overflowing girl when you're lonely and downtrodden. It's too perfect to last. It could end at any second. You could find another reason why, and just leave. And then what? I pick up the pieces, empty that glass just a little bit more, and continue on with my life, attempting to leave this part of the beverage to boil and evaporate in the heat.

-anonymous

S. Jackson St., Beloit, WI

"It's been so long that I don't even look down your street anymore."
from http://www.onesentence.org/stories/popular/all/

$2.25 ride for a chinsy novelist

perpetual motion with cycling in and out strangers and
no one will talk to me, please
because i have this to write and think through
if the world was made up of just yes's and no's
you'd be the first yes

and this would be my last chapter.

daddy's pockets are toothsome

i've do-sa-do'd my soles off by now
so, i sit, take a pause
until my decisions are made for me

but forget-me-nots die out at the first sign
of hoar frost and this waiting is more
like my first experience in
self-strangulation, but,

fee fie foe fum
i wonder if my dad's amalgam
can make me the richest one
he seems to have a bank set aside just for me--i
forget the chair he wheels
along so that he may sit up straight
with us; he's cold to the touch

similarily, i jump from hurt to hate
like a rabbit from its mouth
to the crustacean's bellyache

so my hard work is measured in sections
of heat vision--of oranges next to blues
right about the heart;
or by simple sugar chains to quickly
quantify the organized lipids in my frigid skins

but there are reports of when my eyes scan
for (oh, man, i see him. another bellyache for me to
savor) the best possible error in the room and my heat
sections burst from cold to magenta, momentarily,
presently, boldly asking me to cover the bubble shaft,
disarray in my characteristic, endless impatience

and, again, my heels ran raw
and i go back to daddy with a flagellation
stick and he gives me a 20
to go and find a way to forget.

Dave's Daily Wisdom

i found out wine was considered a raw food. drank some of the wine my parents gave katelyn for her birthday. wrote to my mom through the internet how wonderful she is. must have seemed like i was having a break down. nope. just gushing.

Parents are people-watching at O'Hare before they spend a day travelling to where the earthquake did not quite hit in Spain. Mom first. she speaks to me gently. i wonder if i forgot what i wrote in the message. did i say i wanted to die? i thought it was all about how my parents are giving people. Brother tries to reach her while she tells me to stop worrying. Dad's turn.
"hey baby girl!"
"DAD!"
He goes on to say something that I can't quote word-for-word and then:
"All things must pass. This too shall pass."

Series of Lies #8: Great Loss from False Friends

Pisces in the 2nd House

When Pisces occupies the 2nd House, it suggests that the most benefit will be derived through the creation of goodwill and by correct cultivation of associations. There is some indication that the native may experience losses as a result of imposition, deception, and false friends. He should constantly be cautious with the friends and associations he makes. The inclination to make easy or quick money should always be resisted because endless troubles are indicated here. He should avoid all shady characters because all they will do is cause him problems.

grimace

once hibernating grimace
revealed to have
dismissed details

stoic, steadfast,
registered mind
doesn't want to be troubled
of reminiscing

and his face is
stuck this way
despite the careful wait

Ken

it didn't happen for a while after we were dating but whenever
i clenched my teeth and wanted to yell his name for doing something
rude, inconsiderate, or reckless i always almost nearly uttered my brother's name
instead

and it didn't happen after a while but every guy i dated following him i almost called
them "ken" (his name ain't ken but, you know, this is an anonymous site and all)

and every time i get frustrated i think of ken's name
but i have always been good at catching myself.

one time i morphed his name into "ken--you stop!?"
"ken you shut the fuck up?"
"ken, ugh, you leave me alone?"

and it happened with my teachers growing up too. i would raise my hand and face
the blonde inspirer who looked nothing like my mother and almost nearly say,
"mom?!"

and once i imagined her as my mom. i concluded that the teacher couldn't fill her place.
because one time my brother was being a brat and she yelled up the stairs,
"you son of a bitch!"

A Strict Lawn Cutting Schedule

i had a boyfriend once who made fun of my neighborhood for having too well-kempt lawns. but he always felt his life was the greener side. he had a big family. a noticeably large family.

hi. i wonder every day what it would be like
to have a big family. i wonder if it would be nice
to have someone to call at 3AM and they have to
love you even if you just say, "...i don't know. sorry."
and my dad has five sisters. still, i can not ask enough
questions to get a feel of what it feels like. how many
memories do they get to go through
and all of the pets they had. it would be nice to have
a sibling i look like or talked like or hummed like.
and what if half the kids looked like Da and the other like Ma?

i just wonder what a loud home would be like. would i wish for
the sterile kitchen and quiet vacations like we had? and a room
to myself? would i wish i wasn't an aunt? because i imagine
being an aunt is the closest thing to sunbathing in barbados:
all the kid, none of the work.

Series of Lies #7: Cold-hearted Woman

Did you know what I said?
In my eyes, just then?
The familiar feeling came up again.
The staircase creaks as the memory transcends;
Oh the early morning dusks and those four soiled hands…

Your mom just called,
While I was half naked on my bed;
told her “Don’t worry, he left.”
All the while I know I have tread upon
your uneaten bread.

Your heart takes so many scars
for me to realize
that your light could die out,
That maybe
Every hour you spend with me
Is another flickering flame gone out.
And then, one day,
I’ll lose MY best friend.

-Anonymous

Series of Lies #6: Cold Steak

Valentine’s Day is known as a day of love. The last time I’ve spent Valentine’s Day with a girl she told me she cheated on me. I always told others, and myself, that if a woman ever cheated on me I would straight-up leave her. Now that I have been in the position I realize that it is a little bit harder than that. We had been dating for just over two years, my longest relationship. We have had more ups than downs. I took her out to some upscale restaurant in Madison for Valentine’s Day. As I sit across from her, I notice she is unusually quiet and has rarely looked up at me. In a split second I can tell what is wrong. I know that whatever she is going to say, it will change our relationship.

“What is wrong?”

She starts to get teary.

“I kissed another guy.”

She starts to cry in the restaurant. I knew it was more than a kiss. I know this because the guy she cheated on me with had no problem telling me what he did to her over the phone later that month. Yes, he’s an asshole. I have never been cheated on before. I have heard a lot of horror stories from people but I had no idea how bad it really hurt. I loved her. I thought she loved me. She loved him for a long time now, as I later found out. I guess relationships can be founded on lies. So since she lied to me, I decided to lie to her. Not a vengeful lie, but more of an ignorant/desperate lie to get her to stay with me.

“It’s okay. We can work around this. It’s just a bump in our relationship. People make mistakes. I forgive you. Everything will be okay.”

My steak was getting cold in front of me as I just told six lies in a row. She believed everything I said. Everything was not okay. We can’t work through this. I knew it was over but I wanted to hold on to something that was familiar. I knew I wouldn’t have another girlfriend for years. Years without holding someone’s hand, snuggling. Years without kissing. Even though our relationship was a lie, it was so hard to just let that go.
She smiled and we pretended like everything was okay. We lived the lie for a whole extra week before she broke up with me. I don’t know why I didn’t break up with her; I should have let her go. I lied to her because I was desperate. I lied to her because I was scared. I lied to her because I didn’t want to let go.

I knew what the outcomes would be, but I tried anyway. It has been years since that has happened. Still no girlfriend. I am okay with that though. I have grown up and I am proud to have learned a lesson from that terrible time. No more lies, no more desperation, only patience and love for those who love me back.

-Kevin Garfoot

summer friends in a mason jar

"all there is to do in janesville is sit in cars and listen to the radio."
"we go to janesville from whitewater to sit in cars and listen to the radio."
"and perkins."

i know two times is not impressive but, man, i have heard this series of sentences twice in the past week or so. maybe this means truth? if two groups of people say the same thing, does this not mean it's public opinion?

last summer kevin, kara, and this one girl and I went driving. because all there is to do in janesville is drive out of janesville. (as an aside, when i was sixteen kaity and i drove in my chevy caprice CLASSIC towards whitewater and found a cup in the middle of the street. memorable. i find out five and a half years later that we were in lima township.) we found ourselves in the nowheres and on the drive back, after we had decided we were going to go to denny's, i commanded kara to stop. i finished the cigarette and she said, "what?" "just stop here." she slows down but still asks, "why?"

"just do it." i had spotted a gravel entrance. we park and get out. kevin starts to walk across the street. the girls and i walk towards the hill. and we see them.

thousands (maybe millions? i've never been good at estimation.) of fireflies float in waves above the ground. it was the first time in a long time where we did not have our cameras with us and i am thankful for that. for two reasons: there is no way we could have captured what was happening & it would have taken away from the magic.

we stood and watched those flies glint about each other for too long in the chilly summer night winds and there will never be evidence of that. we were all in love with each other back then. kara and i spent every day together that summer. kevin and i hadn't fought yet. and that one girl, well, back then i called her by her name. and she wasn't terribly annoying to me. at least, i had the patience to ignore when she grunted idiotic remarks and was a terrible listener. back then i went to kara when i wanted to be listened to. when i wanted a real conversation. and we went to denny's before the smoking ban and smoked at least a pack a night over cooling coffee.

and we wrote our first novels. we bitched about patty. we wondered about ex-boyfriends. and we were constantly reminiscing over all the things that had passed during the week.

Series of Lies #5: Oui, bon anniversaire St. Nicholas! au jus.

I was on the corner next to Mo’s Irish Pub, and where Mocha’s used to be, (but now it’s a Subway café). And it was cold, and I had heels on and I was with my very short very nervous very golden eyed friend, let’s call her Gold. Gold wanted to go to the bars with me. It was St Patrick’s day. Green was everywhere as was noisy drinking. Noisy cars with nosey people in them.

This guy wanders over to me and Gold and we put up our invisible shields of hey-its-night-time-and-we-are-girls-back-the-fuck-up. But he ignores it and instead slurs at me “Where are you from? You’re from Europe or somethin’ aren’t you?” Gold looks at me nervously with these huge eyes.

I calmly say, “Yeah I am, I’m French.”

“I knew it!” he cries. “Knew by your heels! They always wear heels over there.”

I mmhm an affirmation. “Yeah, I really miss it, it’s been years, I left when I was a little girl. I miss the green countryside. It’s beautiful.”

He nods, looks intrigued, gets that distance look on his face, the-wow-never-been-there-its-a-whole-different-world.

Then I glance at Gold. “But actually sir we are waiting for my husband, so…”

“Oh, okay okay okay. Didn’t mean to scare you girls or anything.”

“It’s cool.”

He walks away and Gold looks at me and laughs. I click in circles, warding off the cold, in my American heels with my American accent. We wait for my American boyfriend.

Someday I’ll visit France. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.

-Bethany Price

snow leopard prowling

i had a website to make. eric was going to do work next to me. i mentioned the open lab in the basement of johnston having macs. we walk down there. i jiggle room 23's locked handle and say loudly, grumbling, "why the FUCK are you closed?" i point to the schedule; it says they should be open until midnight. eric shrugs. we hear someone behind us. across the hall is another computer lab. he says, "open lab is over here." i say, meekly, "okay." i start to walk in, see everyone in my publication design class, and immediately walk out explaining, "I wasn't really mad! it was a joke." and i quickly run upstairs and eric follows me to the union computer lab.

where they don't know me.

which one will I choose?!

"Wait up!"

my fiery brother:
does not hold up when climbing
to the top, alone.
--

What font would your voice be?
I am thinking something large, bold, but with serifs.

My brother and I spent hours growing up designing our dream homes and our own fonts. I would have a well lit library. He wanted an underground car factory with pre-unwrapped caramels. He held the badminton birdie gingerly with his left hand and as it lifted into the air and crossed the sun, I squinted and it hit me in the nose.

The first time he held my hand was when I bled from those nostrils. And the second time after I vomited from playing silent hill 3 and listening to the Beatle's "Number 9" at the same time in the dark during winter break with nothing in my stomach. And the third time during my first migraine when I could not dial a phone and I cried harder than when Tyler broke up with me in seventh grade and I got a D in grammar. My parents still don't know about that.

My brother despite never wanting me to join him when he climbed surely knew how to care. And it makes me wonder if I am the same. If when we trek together I seem to never wait up.

Series of Lies #4: The Magical Fruit

He couldn't handle the word "t--t." And there are things you can tease a person over. The fact that their forehead can sustain an extended family's food supply for a year or that she laughs with snorts and snickers. But this one, no. You can't say it. It is even hard to type it. His mood is ruined for days if he hears the word. He would rather you talk about his mother's sex life than say this word. (The word is "toot." Just don't tell him I told you. And don't you fucking dare joke about it.) So, when we were driving to the Mexican grocery store one August and Bart Simpson came on the radio and starting the ditty:

Beans, beans
it's the magical fruit!
the more you eat
the more you--

I yelled straight into his ears so he would not have to hear it. This put him into a bad mood for the entire dinner. I guess he does not like loud voices as well. He would turn out not to like cats. Best friends. Soul music. Grass stains. Showers. And more. And I continued to keep him from being exposed to these.

I am better now. I punch people when I'm drunk and I laugh as loud as I like.

Series of Lies #2: set you free

lie
Show Spelled [lahy] Show IPA noun, verb, lied, ly•ing.
–noun
a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.
–verb (used without object)
to express what is false; convey a false impression.
---


What is a lie? Does anyone ever stop to think about what exactly it means before they open their mouths and let the words slip? Maybe if we did we wouldn't do it so often. Everybody lies. Sometimes it's to save face, yours or theirs. Sometimes it's to avoid hurting feelings or to protect. Many times it's just to avoid punishment or a fight. It may be that your intentions are good, they may even be pure (if that's possible when considering lying which in and of itself seems very impure).

Thinking about how many times you've been lied or how many times you've lied to is an impossible task. Some people are so good at deceiving you that you'll never know it. Many lies that you've been told or have told yourself are harmless. And, no one is the wiser. Some may even say that lies are a necessary evil: something we have to do in order to protect the ones we love. Would our society be better off without lies? Who can say.

The worst lie anyone can ever tell, I think, is a lie that deals with matters of the heart. You may think that you're protecting the one you love, but in reality, when the lie is discovered, and more often than not it is, the breach of trust in the relationship can be irreparable. The hurt is magnified hundreds of times more than if you would've just been upfront about it. The worst lie I was ever told was a three and half year long relationship. In its entirety. Every moment but for the first few months was a lie. Unspeakable things occurred during the relationship that rocked the very foundation of my being. And because of all the lies it was impossible to sort out the truths and it was impossible to escape. I can't even recall everything that happened, mostly because I've refused to remember. It's easier that way. All I know is that one day I woke up and realized that it was no longer worth trying to sift through the lies to find the truths, and walked away for good.

The worst lie I ever told was that I loved someone I really didn't. It wasn't just a lie I told him, it was a lie I told myself. The worst part was, that by that time I was so hardened, it didn't even bother me, but it does now. I'm sorry that I lied to him, but I don't think he ever knew it. He ended the relationship and I knew I had been lying the whole time because I wasn't even sad when it was over; I was relieved. I feel guilty now for feeling that way, and because every now and then he calls or messages me and I have no interest in talking to him. Knowing that he still thinks about me, because he did love me, makes me feel guilty. I don't know if it's just because I lied to him about loving him, or if I would feel guilty or badly regardless.

When it comes to love, lying is probably the worst thing you can do. The kinds of lies involved in a relationship are typically the worst kind that inflict the most hurt when they are discovered. If you truly love someone: be honest. What might sting a little at first is sure to cause a gaping wound if left to fester in untruth. Be kind to the ones you love, and as the old saying goes:

the truth will set you free.

-the beloved Kara

Nicotine Dream #2

Nicotine is a powerful drug that affects subconscious thought, brain waves, the depth of sleep, and can even affect dreams. The days after quitting, or taking a break, can result in the wildest minds.
--

He is magic, I guess. His computer didn't work and it turned into an SUV. Sue, the mother of the kid I babysat, barked from behind the couch still stuck in her lazyboy, "do you like the XLRs with the--" honestly, I have no idea what car lingo she said. But she said it. And the boy in my bed is sweaty. We are both sweaty. The room is out of order. It looks like we just moved in. An hour ago. Dressers neatly pressed against each other. Only the bed frame assembled. And he is magic, I guess. He wills a painting of my best friend I did while a freshman off the wall and melts it. I am not astounded, though. I sigh. Deeply. And say, "goddammit." Not another one. Another one? I explain to him every boy I've ever kissed has been magic. And he seems diminished.

We walk outside. It's India with barns and three-walled homes and vendors. But it is night time and the vendors don't feel like talking to us. And we are in a beauty contest but it is more like a gymnastics competition. In which I have no bearing. So I stand behind Patrick. I tell him he looks handsome. He does. But he also looks very aged. I omit this observation. And every one that has ever held my hand is competing. We are single file behind a large red curtain and I can hear the crowd roar louder than my nerves every time the next person is up. I am the only female. But we are all brown haired. And no one seems to please this crowd.

It is my turn, now. This is when I awoke.

Series of Lies #1: Fountain Smoke

We don't deal in self-deceit. We deal in deceit.

I can't even pass the G. D. fountain without being poked at by those trashy hipster fuck-collectors. They must know. They must. It's like they're smoking at me. And pressed firmly in between their index and expressive finger they hold my Marlboro red. They wait for the wind to choose my direction, they french inhale and then exhale directly into my nicotine need. And my pace quickens towards the Open Pantry where I can choose to join the wannabes.

Snowglobes: You Either Want to Collect Them or Smash Them

a collaborative poem by

Partheny Maroua Nixstin

man, food as a social bond
to drag state the brow dregs unworldly
rapscallions outwards, possibly
a fifth wheel, or an orbit on the run
casting pinpricks on my deprecations

of myself, selfish loathing, but only to a point,
to a point spoked by several intrices, crossing
steeped strange brew between homelands
& wrapped on the cranks at juiced rusters
annoying rusted roots! they are eating
my fruits!

hold, he says, for a stallion maiden awaits
and jostles my pupils for a coded syrillian scroll
she says, "May, I will let go, drop my
sac of water and busy will I plunder."
Dink down under a dowl or two campground owners
digging trenches for their tent-flops
and flip-flops which flapped against toe-teeth
a baby seethes in brandy, marinade for
baby-backed ribs, beef for the Halal crowd
and kosher for the others, blood empty tongue.
Shabbat on Tuesday this Time.

MY FIRST CUT OUT POEM

A soldier in Iraq called with two weeks notice
to tell his wife he was now
a virtual hailstorm of chaos and uninterrupted text,
and that the old men finally got him -
he's a certified Isle,
with granny square afghans to match.
on the phone, she was a nervous inebriation of
golden poppies and pornographic eyebrows -
she knew he tended towards the experimental,
but this well worn territory
Prefixed with media barrage
alloted her vanilla boyfriends
and grand portico canopies.
"the world is changing"
she realized -
and after glows on the far ridges of America
would not be employed in her meat hacking slaughter.
so, her laughter, entirely undue to vagueness/confusion,
fell in with the lonely left over thumbs
of Hebrew hospitality.
Her husband's penis, waving like an anemone,
would miss her fattening walls.

-Bethany Price

I'm Not Gary Busey but...

i wonder if he harms little children
to make up for his blind spots
---

tender fragrant grass, how
hard-hearted to trample

even if ye must

would you rest your
unclean hand on the queen's linens
or treat your infinitesome
sinews with the strain of
unwanted verse?

how queer it must seem
to each blade to feel
a heretic

when the grass has smiled
trinities of centuries
before any drill
was stripped

but we assume the
magistrate to train
this land as if

it were extraterrestrial
to us.

Nicotine Dream #1: Palomino

Nicotine is a powerful drug that affects subconscious thought, brain waves, the depth of sleep, and can even affect dreams. The days after quitting, or taking a break, can result in the wildest minds.

___

She was a palomino. We were just the regular muddy thoroughbreds and every second we twitched. I was a muddy clydesdale with a emergency poncho and the bugs still bit. The moon was blue and the sky was orange. Then we were all in a canoe and my dad said we shouldn't worry about the weight limit. "If we tip over, we tip over." I remember him saying, "and if we tip over, it'll be fun. And we will get clean." No biggie. But she was a palomino so she got her own boat and the bug didn't bite her at all. We tipped over and the squids laughed at us, waving their limbs towards the shore. And they sang to us, "it's always good to have a palomino around." Then we clomped on typewriters. Nothing special, just homework and job applications.

socks

1.

an eight-pronged birth merely sighed

out of the greased metal womb, the

umbilicals populous as medusa's squamates

snipped and flurried to the gritty plain,

unchosen and neglected, they cry

frays to one another while their twin threads

slumber in a paper nest, rejoicing that even as

they stretch in life, they will stretch together,

match one another in their warping

2.

In my family, socks were like suits for our feet. On Christmas, we wore jingle bell socks so our feet could tell each other, "Merry Christmas," as they crossed paths. On prom night, they were black and tailored to my exact measurements. My date did not have to look higher than my ankles to know who I was, what I was made of. They were a sign of dignity and of our lives. When I saw my grandfather's feet without socks, naked, in their birthday suits, I knew that he was already dead.

3.

Every Sunday afternoon we all spun in the center of our own galaxy. Such a euphoric end to a banal routine: Martha hauls us into the laundromat in a garbage gab, all of us bloated and deformed by a day on her size 10 feet. She whistles some Stones or Rod Stewart song while tosses us by the handful into the washer and we soak coldly and dejectedly, grumpily clump together in the spin cycle. All seems damp and hopeless until halfway through the dryer's run, we begin to come back to life. Sparks fly between us like in The Creation of Adam. But in this apotheosis, a sadness ambles about my soul. My brother sock, without which I can never be called a sock in my own right, but merely a half of a sundered pair, is forgotten clinging to the washer's inner barrel.

4.

In a moment that escapes the senses

some war is won (one-zero) & lost

in my left boot The unstoppable

force of my big to no longer clashes

with the immovable object that is

the sock thread

& the toe (the sinister

alpha) hatches free of it's binds to stretch

in the open air my boot top, a

luxury so rare it has no conception

how to enjoy it, though it will crave the

experience once more the moment it is over

5.

I have a name tag that will tell you my name is "Callhoun," which it is, and I have told some people that this was my mother's favorite actor's name and other schmoes that it was the Arkansas town I was born in and still others that it was the a family name, and honestly I don't remember which, if any, of those origin stores was the one that was told to me by my Aunt Rheba and Uncle Mike. Sometimes I forget that I don't remember my own name until I see the text reversed and shined back to me on the window pane that overlooks the crumbling parking lot. My kid sister Eliza insisted I apply as a greeter since I "had nothing doing in [my] life ever since [my] retirement." This after she had called me and asked what was new and I recounted the last five weeks of As the World Turns from Maureen's fake pregnancy to Maureen's real pregnancy, all the way up to the revelation that it was actually another fake pregnancy.

Young folks come into the store, herding and yanking their kids around them in perpetual chaotic orbits. "Welcome to Wal-Mart," I say. "Socks? You want socks, eh? The socks are in aisle... seven, just next to aisle six." I have no idea if that is true. "Oh, no no. Thank you, sir, and have a good day."

6.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

MANNY, 25, in a nice suit, barefoot tears through the top drawer of his dresser, throwing shirts and underwear over his head as he rummages.

MANNY (under breath)

Damn it.

INT. HALLWAY - MOMENTS LATER

Manny knocks on the door and it pushes in. CARL, also in his mid-twenties is on the other side, looking curiously at Manny.

MANNY

I have that big interview in twenty minutes and I can't find any clean socks in my room. Can I borrow some of yours?

CARL

Impossible, Manny. You know how particular I am about my socks. If it were anything else, you know I would help, but I just can't do it. In fact, I was just about to head downstairs to the vending machine. Do you want anything?

MANNY

No, thanks. I'm good.

Manny backs away from the door and watches Carl walk out of his room and exit their apartment through the front door. After biting his nail for a moment, Manny lunges into Carl's room.

INT. CARL'S ROOM - CONT.

Many bee-lines for Carl's dresser and opens the top drawer. He visibly relaxes as he lifts a pair of blacks socks out of the drawer.

JUMPCUT TO:

INT. CARL'S ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Manny sits on the edge of Carl's bed. He already has a sock on his right foot and he's putting another on his left.

We hear the front door open and Manny jumps up, pulling the sock on in the same motion.

He rushes to the door just as Carl appears in the doorway, holding an unopened can of lemonade.

CARL

What are you doing in -

Carl sees his socks on Manny's feet. He becomes enraged.

CARL

Give them back, Manny!

Manny tries to run around Carl, but Carl shoves him backward, so hard he trips and falls backward onto Carl's bed.

Carl discards the lemonade onto the bed and attacks Manny's feet, trying to pull the socks off of them.

Manny picks up the lemonade can and smashes Carl on the head with it. Carl is struck unconscious and drops to the floor.

The can bounces off his head, lands on the floor, and sprays lemonade fizz out of a ruptured whole in its side.

Manny crouches over Carl. Blood pours from an open head wound. He puts his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse, then withdraws them.

MANNY

My god.

Manny stands up, straightens his collar and backs away from Carl's body. Carl's stiff hand is still clutching one of the socks and it pulls off of Manny's foot.

Manny crouches and tugs it out of Carl's grasp.

Sock in hand, he runs out of the room and then out the front door.

CUT TO:

INT. OFFICE - DAY

Manny sits across the desk from an INTERVIEWER.

INTERVIEWER

You're a very impressive young man, Manny, and I love your socks, but I have to ask... where are your shoes?

REVEAL MANNY'S FEET: shoeless.

On Manny's face. He looks down and realizes he's forgotten his shoes. There's a look on his face like "yikes."



-a poem to mock those in writers' group by Parker Winship

never ford the river

he, the innocent one,
fumbled my thumbs
grown home from beyorn
-jambed limbs getting stubbed

their sex was in between my legs
a pelvis or two folding at my thighs
two pansies yipping together, a kosher meal
toppled jewelry box and its jacks stabbing
at my red haired pygmy friend in the back who chants
a little gregorian while he unsheathes and
then sighs, sighs, sighs

and I see I am still paying
for falling off the monogamy wagon
with every time we are all within a foot of that room
where we forced warmed beers down his throat
and laughed at how much more wild we are
than them--at least I learned how to lie

hope she remains happy to be
my grazing, musing scapegoat
because she sure does it well
we should have learned from all those rainy-day recesses
sitting at those macintoshs, playing game after game
of Oregon Trail (we were all there at age 9, in the same room)
that you never should ford the river

and the rest of us, well,
we aim to forget.