There really isn't much to do as I am slapped about
with a stinky fishing lure.
Dark circles appear when I need them least...
As opposed to when I need them the most which
is usually around six or seven in the evening
as I open a bottle and think about independent
films. I drink the wine but do not watch the film.
I usually arise in the morning, fucking unorthodox cold
because I have told the sheets 'no more' and kicked
them off of the bed. They obey and commiserate
among the nickels, the semen, the envelopes,
the coffee, the books and the mandolin strings
which adorn my afghan rug.
No, there really isn't much to do.
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In Mahim you see the same things over and over again. That’s my father’s old neighborhood. His father brought the family there in 1950 from the villages. They ate lots of fish in the villages and lived a peaceful life. They even had a dog. But they were poor and my grandmother kept having babies.
So my grandfather left solo to Bombay to find work. He found it all right. He worked three jobs in the city down by the seaport and some nights slept out on the docks. After two years he’d saved up enough to rent a flat in Mahim on Shitladevi Temple Road and sent for my grandmother and their children.
Life was new again. But hard. My grandfather was hardly around and his children were scared of him.
Soon, my grandfather’s mother came to live with them too. She was a tiny, fierce lady of many talents. She taught my father how to sew, how to sketch portraits on scrap.
My grandfather had lived in Bombay before – once, in the 1930s, as a student at Wilson College. A year after he enrolled he dropped out and returned to the village to support his mother. She was alone. My grandfather’s father was not well, mentally, and had been locked up in an insane asylum. He died there.
Poem of the Week
who have experienced
on a large
i tell raif
i think my
might be dead
haven't seen her
& her car hasn't moved
for two weeks.
you would smell it
passing me a plate
of triangular shaped bread
slathered in jam.
Story of the Week
DARLEEN SQUEELED into the empty spot as soon as the gleaming white Mercedes pulled out. "We got lucky," she told Montana. "Even on a Monday night, this lot is killer."
Montana rolled her big blue eyes. "Whatever."
The eleven year old had better things to do, like text her friends. Incessantly, as if she had a tic. The kid hadn't wanted to shop tonight, but Darleen insisted. This was their first Christmas without Paulie and the girls needed to stick together. Darleen's ex had been nasty lately and mediation had hit a cement wall. Montana wasn't aware how dangerously close they were to losing access to Paulie's vast and unreported wealth.
Montana sighed dramatically as she yanked open the door of the Porsche Cayenne and tumbled out. She didn't pause in her texting.
Darlene checked her face in the rearview mirror. The most recent fat transfer had been wildly successful. She loved her new lips. Grabbing her Gucci bag, she hopped out of the front seat.
Her daughter trailed her into the mall, thumbs flashing on her phone keypad.