Breadcrumb #433

SARAH BRIDGINS

I bought a $400 dress
that makes me look
like the cast of Dynasty fucked
a disco ball
and I couldn’t be happier.
I had it altered
to show more cleavage. 

I was going to say
I couldn’t afford it
to sound more relatable
but that’s a lie. 

I work at a hedge fund,
my parents are dead.
I could afford it. 

Other things I can afford:
a Nintendo Switch,
an oil painting of Lisa Rinna
from the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills
pointing at her head. 

I was going to say
I would rather have my parents back
than any of these things,
to sound more relatable,
but that’s also a lie. 

My parents
were going to die eventually,
and someday that dress
will no longer fit,
my Nintendo
will stop working,
but that painting of Lisa Rinna,
that, will last forever.

• • •

Breadcrumb #432

GARY GLAUBER

I traipse through this meadow
of white noise battling petty desires,
fast realizing the folly of ancient wisdom.
The turn of phrase often serves me well.
If the muse smiles favorably, I can
inspire blushes with the best of them.
But modern love is a texted illusion
supplemented with emojis and filters
to create yet another layer of illusion
to add to this latest album’s collection.
See who sees what, who approves
or acknowledges, how many hits
before crisis of confidence emerges.
In quiet times I will scroll,
seeking solace but instead
reading of personal tragedy,
of trivial journalizing and
conversational salt sprinkled on
latest cause or current event.
It’s a caravan of bandwagons,
and I am barely aware of jumping on,
sliding downhill toward an
unsustainable position.
This is the world I must bequeath
to others: younger, faster, better.
While I observe rules of
perceived politesse,
she posts another perfect pose,
black dress as framing device
to backlit alluring half-smile,
a come hither acknowledgement
of nature’s given advantages.
Yet hours later she admits
her weariness at the sad plight
of older men appearing
on the periphery with
pathetic flirtations,
sad messengers from an outmoded past
whose present becomes blocked
from pursuing hopeful futures.
Is this really a better world?
I sometimes wonder.

• • • • • •

Breadcrumb #431

SERGIO SATÉLITE

Motivation waits for me
with a cold glass of water.
I split my blue pills into breadcrumbs.
I cannot pray. So I drink.

Mine is a kind of voluptuous self-consumption
with its quasi-predictable-dance
between stimulus and response.
I drift. I float in my wishy-washy déjà vu-ing.
Too often, I seem unable to change.

A gunfight breaks out in the ship of Theseus.
17 against 25. God dies in the helicopter.
Purpose plummets with a hole in its temple.
And I. I Alone. Escape to tell you the news.

You fooled me once. Shame on you.
I fool me every day. Year after year.
Until your mother’s mustache gets sweaty.
What then? Long, hot showers? Is there a “beyond-the-circles”?

Why do we keep delaying putting away our ninja turtles?
Re-committing to Proust? Fixing the Venezuelan economy
and growing into the philosopher-kings our teenage versions
once fashioned for ourselves out of AM-radio-theologies?

Somebody has to go down on the Statue of Liberty.
Somebody has to perform open-mic surgery on this baby, baby.
Somebody has to plug the world back
into this drooling, dissociative unit.
Don’t you understand, Steven?
Somebody has to kill the babysitter.

• • •

Breadcrumb #430

MATTHEW D. ROWE

Broken thoughts piled up.
Heaps of recycled romance.
Your delicate wrists.

The love cell brimming
with sacred love oils.
My mouth speaks.

Little notes.
                                            Smoke memories billowing
                                            from the incinerator.

                                            You exit the same way.
                                            You came.
                                            A tower of complexities.

                                            Swaying, clinging to a concept.
                                            When the plumes of guilt hit
                                            the ozone, we have gone too far.

                                            Your chameleon eyes lock
                                            the service entrance to my insides.
                                            Wrap my hands in cling film.

                                            I hike the heap of hopes
                                            to a rowboat shimmering.
                                            On the beer can pond.

• • •

Breadcrumb #429

GERARD SARNAT

I began the day bemoaning I.C.U. State of the Union
including ongoing U.S. federal Civil Wars, then
continued post ablutions morning of our golden
anniversary driving to a Century City high-rise
to sign closing escrow papers on parents’
condominium where they seemed to live happily
since their two kids went far far away to college --
never to return until we had had a few children too.

Well truth be told actually I began the day
in the impermanent unit which was now
in mid-sprucing waiting on its new
occupants to complete what
I started but suspended per
negotiations with buyer now
hopefully raising the cash to pay us
so as Sister and I can end this hassle.

Ostensibly I began the day in the condo
to make sure the very last set of keys
not handed over to officialdom
fit into though the real reason
is I wanted some time alone
there to process termination of tangible
connections as such to Mama plus Dad
with the exception of chosen tchotchkes.

When the day’s tasks began, I unlocked the door
(check) to the place Mommy died 146 nights
ago after I as the firstborn physician son
gathered family to say goodbyes before
administering enough morphine to get
the deed done as comfortably as possible
just like it’d gone down with Doc Dad whom
Ger was a lot closer to 2513 dawns preceding.

Be that as it may, I began the day within space
evacuated of everything except a grand piano
smack middle of the otherwise buck naked
living room and salt/ pepper shakers
I remember from Chicago babyhood hiding
out in an overlooked cabinet inside the kitchen.
All of the rooms are consumed by fresh drywall
bland blizzard emptiness extending in each dimension.

Thus I began the day compensating for ambivalent
cool clinical feelings about the female who gave
genes, carried then expelled me, plus the male
ditto contributed tangled material. I offer myself
a half hour in weirdly bookless nooks to imagine
being lost without them: more importantly I conceded
dollars to the prospective owner, the Persian mother of
a current nitpicking tenant so they might live happily everafter.

If I began the day attending to past suffering, I finished up at
oldest daughter’s L.A. home in which her sibs congregate
with 5 grandchildren -- no minor feat given school, work
distances, pregnancy or sickness -- to celebrate our 50th
then remain in town for Ashkenazi New Year honoring
my wife who has come from a warmly Orthodox heritage
whereas [surprise, surprise!] Hubby derived from a tribe
of assimilated scientific atheist types, perhaps even Jew-Bus.

• • •