Late Dinner w/ Clowns
by Christopher Carosi
for M. & J.
3 kinds of people—
1 that laughs with you
1 that laughs at you
1 that does not know you
I know you wonder what
that goes to—you are my friends at
round tables, powdered faces
sweating fingers
red noses, rainbow wigs pinned onto a hairnet
cigarette smell
stain melted into nylon strands
taped wrists under ruffled cuffs,
caked pits, cotton undergarments,
spitshine watch, curvature of chin
4 suits, 4 absurdities:
spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds:
death, love, reputation and riches
mistaken for an evil man molesting children
mistaken for cartoon man disappear behind the curtain
I know you, Mr. ____, by the dwindling lamp
by the fireplace, holding a bulb of wine, crumbs
of cheesecake floating on your polka dot collar
these imperfections, this pink room vodka myth,
negligible stereo of two eyes, two ears, sockets
memory, wonder with me, you’ve been out this way?
the rest of you—been out this way before? blue wig,
makeup whiter than your teeth, now your steak knife
falls to the floor, jack of clubs (that’s the knave of clubs)
kicked further under the table—negligible spirits
cookies on the kitchenette counter
jar of raisins, pizzelles from board walk
puzzles, trapeze postcards
crowded dressing room, tiny endangered
animals, Mary on a medallion, scaly
old neck, tanned neck, bike horn, little car
painted magenta, orange, and cyan, headstands
and water tricks, blazers and glasses and huge
seltzer bottles, fake birds and lunch with
magician who looks through the face
bobcat tails, free samples
cereal, at least three for one
good helping of breakfast
curtains only smell when daylight leaks
I wish there was two more
of you so we could have a proper picture
we could invite
we think, there’s the man when the beard comes off
holding his chest out proudly like a suitcase, leather
handles, good fortune smile, chapped lips, the smell
of skunk beer and garlic and oil—from the chicken
spawned in the skillet last night, forget this shower
marionette strings hanging over fake marble
counter, red cape and underwear, lifestyle
pamphlets: depression, hemorrhoids, CPR
trapeze swinger’s scarf still holds her smell
her sickness of fine wine, red fungus ring
around the sink drain, real hair fake hair
knotted like a short dick in the rust hole
her breasts were so white, nickel-sized nipples
painted with practiced hand, her body
held together by the tight bonds she
balances on, her drunk
smile curves softly like her breasts
taped down and chalked with her callused hands
her bad breath, I imagine her tin of mints
set on her nightstand, red digital numbers
reflecting off the dull box—a tiny toy
piano jingles on the toilet top—ding
ting ding ting ding ting—she kisses
sloppily, her hair tucked behind her neck
her small indiscriminate hands grabbing
at pillowy crotch, moonlight can cut
through the rows of green wine bottles
standing shoulder-to-shoulder, blades
to her trailer window, what kind of love
was there, none you say and move me
the salt, she moved to Darlington
mistaken for a stranger after a birthday,
you were attached to the circus at a young age
—the rest of you—?—ah, there that
elephant knows how to annoy you
but weren’t you the clown I saw puking gin
behind the portable toilet yes, you and this one
hobo monotonous were laughing about conscription
and asking mothers if they ever had sex
in a tiny car, haha
hold their hair up, the cars are hot colorful
boxes when I was 5 years old
I won a pizza party with a clown man who could not
have had a set of eyes behind his white and red smile
I refused to look at them
his name escapes me these deranged
cartoon smiles, orange pop, Pizza Joe or
Lemony Jack my soft shoulders inside
corduroy, my mother brought a camera
I smell sweat what does it mean mommy
get thee to a nunnery
where is your toe in these red shoes
no shit, here where you lost a toe
I fold my hand, trip’ jacks (spades hearts clubs),
the blue & white cards facing me he holds
in his fat fingers across the table, a copied illustration—
cherub on a bicycle pushing
to me through imperceptive white
filigree—its insect wings are stuck
against the flatness—all drawings
are full of tightness, back to back
paper on paper, paint your face
and break out in pimples, rosy cheeks
are you embarrassed or about
to laugh—about to laugh at me
no I don’t have any jokes, well
there was an Englishman, a Scotsman, and a Chinaman
there was a priest, a rabbi, and a nun
there was an Italian, a Jew, and a black guy
there was no more laughing, I stopped and turned around
in the kitchen—I had the rum in my hand and I heard
a voice leak from where they were sitting, they were
sneaking behind their smoke and snickers, and they were
too sane, wearing their makeup and their fright
frown concealed in permanent delight
I don’t know if it scares me anymore
drunk and entertaining no more, everyone
laughs and imagines costumes, their muscular
fingers tugging a bowtie
too tight, too tight, too tight, too tight
“You know I used to be an actor
then they told me to make em laugh”
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Christopher Carosi is a recent graduate of the MFA Writing program at USF. His first chapbook of poems, bright veil, was published by New Fraktur Press in 2011. He welcomes your comments on “Late Dinner w/ Clowns” at drcarosive[at]gmail.com.
photo by tallkev
IKEA BUSA Children’s Folding Tent Recall
by Daniel Romo
IKEA BUSA Children’s Folding Tent Recall
October 2011
Camping in the living room could be more dangerous than you thought. A Disney movie marathon shouldn’t conclude with stitches and a tetanus shot. The tent frame can break; exposed steel wire might stick the stomach and ribs. Lacerate lungs. IKEA is aware of three incident reports, none in the U.S. or Canada. One minor injury was reported which didn’t require medical attention. The tent has been sold since August of this year. Roughing it home furnishings style appears to be an all too appropriate tagline. For more information, please contact out toll free hotline.
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Daniel Romo is an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte, but represents the LBC. His poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Los Angeles Review, MiPOesias, > kill author, and elsewhere. His first book of poetry, Romancing Gravity, is forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press. He’s currently looking for a home for a book of prose poems, and working on a top-secret project about a certain Swedish home products company. More of his writing can be found here.
photo by epSos.de
Fuck-up
by Ben Ditmars
The words aren’t right.
They never could be.
Because I’m a fuck-up.
It all seems insincere.
I try to back-track.
Can’t convey.
It’s all the truth;
It seems a lie.
Because I’m a fuck-up.
My laugh is hollow;
Echoes off your face,
Retracts, jams down my throat
To choke me as I gasp, you watch,
Considering your next move; to save,
Or let me die. But you know the latter
Has more solace in the end for me.
Because I’m a fuck-up.
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Ben Ditmars is an alumni of Ohio State University hoping to soon pursue a Masters in Education. You can reach him at beeditty[at]gmail.com.
photo by frakokot
Loving Grace
by Dale Wisely
“Loving Grace” by Dale Wisely
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Dale Wisely founded and co-edits Right Hand Pointing and White Knuckle Press. You can reach him here.
IKEA PARODI Glass Vase Recall
by Daniel Romo
IKEA PARODI Glass Vase Recall
February 2007 – October 2007 from supplier #18347
The base of PARODI vase breaks for no apparent reason. Fill it with perennial Forget-me-nots and the flowers fail to remember how to stand. Season of ornamental haphazard. Following investigation, a number of PARODI vases have been found to have too high internal stresses. The smallest scratch could lead to a sudden bloody gash. Seven customers worldwide sustained cuts and in five cases hospital treatment was required. Dimensions of danger: 70 cm (28 inches) high and weigh approximately 5 kg (11 lbs.). Base diameter is 15 cm (6 inches); top diameter is 23 cm (9 inches). PARODI vase is produced in black (art. no. 20110234), white (art. no. 50112199) and clear glass (art. no. 00079545). All glass is fragile, but this glass is temperamental, too. When returning to the nearest store, handle with extra care.
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Daniel Romo is an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte, but represents the LBC. His poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Los Angeles Review, MiPOesias, > kill author, and elsewhere. His first book of poetry, Romancing Gravity, is forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press. He’s currently looking for a home for a book of prose poems, and working on a top-secret project about a certain Swedish home products company. More of his writing can be found here.
photo by liquene