menses

An ambitious professor witnesses a gun-brandishing whore shooting at a California crescent moon. In time, he teaches her sons and daughters impressionable rhetoric of kinked metallic metaphors so shiny and new. “Look who has the weapon now stud[ents]”.  Furiously they draw, miming her twisted pain, magically building clever scallops and curves; yes America, business as usual.

A pregnant prostitute is firing a pistol at the full moon.  Her destitute grandfather persuades the rusty district to turn off artificial lighting entirely. With newly darkened streets, the hulking power grid is hardly missed, reddened by street side fires, the facades appear less plain, on faintly moist lawns we casually sat and chatted, shadow free. Who’s bad and who’s good?  Without fear, she is cleansed and no longer open for business.

qp 2011