Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

Four Poems

FOUR POEMS OR, ALTERNATIVELY TITLED “BALLIN’ IN THE CLUB WITH NO JERZEY”

 

Suicide Poem
 

cells atrophy right in front
of our eyes and I think, no
I decide to kill myself
while I am sitting on my couch
watching Jimmy Kimmel Live
tonight’s guest is Christina Applegate
and I am just about to retrieve something
to construct a noose with
when she tells a story
about kissing Paul McCartney
when she finishes the entire audience
launches into a righteous laughter
I am so amused
so affected by this anecdote
that I get distracted
I finish the episode
and go to bed

 

 

 

Even Heroes Have Slump Days
 

lawns are a symbol of the patriarchy
in the same way that biting your nails short is
I am saying that my anxiety is systematic
or that I can never get a manicure again
Love is only a competition if you say so

 

 

 

 

Digital Intimacy
 

something about sports
something about celebrity gossip
something about summer travel destinations
something about the weather where you are
if it is raining text me
I will stand in the shower
and feel it with you if you let me
something about school
something about your sister in Tampa
something about a new movie I’ll never see
I will talk around this for as long as possible
when I speak softer into the telephone listen closely
there is something else out there
an apparatus to divide my love by
a green dot telling me you are online
and glowing just beyond my reach
forever

 

 

 

 

Ellen Degeneres Poem
 

Today while I am at work

my cubicle mate is watching Ellen Degeneres
in the break room while eating ramen noodles

I try to get a soda from the vending machine
but the can gets stuck on the way down

On the TV,
Ellen is giving a record deal to the deaf child with a beautiful voice
She is sending the war stricken Nigerian family a Mazda Minivan

the crowd is fucking loving it, they’re eating it all up,
they’re screaming and crying and going home
with complimentary gift bags worth more than my rent

And I am sitting down here
Below the harsh glow of the television screen

With a pocket full of change
feeding a machine that doesn’t work

For a moment I think Ellen can see it all
like she’s some sort of God

the answer to every problem that plagues me
and my eyes begin to water

Then my cubicle mate takes a loud slurp of his ramen noodles
And I snap out of it

I bang my knee against the vending machine
And finally my can of Sprite falls out

I go back to work

 

 

 

 

Miles Preston-Clark is a writer and student living in Chicago. His writing has been published in Hobart, Spork Press, Pioneertown, Reality Hands, Wu-Wei Magazine and elsewhere. He is currently writing a short story about being the last black person on earth.