Monday, February 25, 2013

Electric Volley

balls refuse to fly.

They like the contrast of the sand

against their moonly trail. They roll


Automated Attitude

Thank you for calling. To continue

in English please press 1. [1 is pressed] This is America,

right? English should be automatic

ally assumed. Otherwise, press 2. I pressed 1

already. [1 is pressed again.] I’m sorry. I cannot process

your selection. To continue

in English please press 1. [1 is jabbed repeatedly

with forefinger.] Did you get that this time? Thank you.

How can we help you today? To pay an outstanding balance

please say “make a payment.” What? Outstanding

balance? I paid my bill last week. Would you like to make

a payment? No, no I don’t. I don’t

have a payment to make. I’m sorry, I did not understand

that. If you would like to make a payment say “make

a payment.” Would you like to make a payment?

[Visibly reddening. A deep breath is taken.] No. Thank you.

Would you like to go to the main menu? What? This isn’t

the main menu? It’s the main 800 number. Shouldn’t I get

the main menu by dialing it? If yes, press 1. If no, press 2.

[1 is pressed.] I’m sorry I couldn’t process

your selection. Please try again. For the main menu . . .

[1 is pressed so hard the button gets stuck and makes annoying

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep sound.] There’s your fucking

1, you arrogant electronic bitch! Can I talk to a god-damned person

please! I’m sorry I cannot process your selection . . . [Phone is

banged against forehead in frustration.] . . . please hold for our first

available operator. Hallefuckingluya!

Billing Department, this is Cindy, would you like to make a payment . . .

Deep Fried Barbie

Barbie wanted out. She was tired

of being forced into whatever

occupation the marketing machine

gods tagged as trendy that year.

She was sick

of the ridiculously impractical outfits,

a nightmare to get off

and on over unbending joints,

shoes that never stayed

on her feet, an assigned significant other

with an annoying smile and hair

that never moved.

Barbie secretly dreamed of growing

old and fat, of having wrinkles and gray

hair, of no longer living out someone

else’s fantasies. She tried slitting

her wrists, but she couldn’t bleed. She jumped

off a bridge, but couldn’t drown (she doesn’t

breathe, does float). Finally,

she found her way out. She threw herself

into a pan of oil, happily melted into a pool

of plastic oblivion.

The Road to Abnegation Road

falls (painfully) short of its idealistic intentions.

Waivers at the sight of its own

blood flowing freely in continued sacrifice.

Genuflects on scabbed knees for forgiveness that never

comes. Maxes out

its credit at corner of hammer and nails, pools

pieces in semblance of sacred

circle under signed

guarantee: 4 strikes and never

a holler.

A.J. Huffman

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...