© 2011 by David Tomaloff

NAP CHAP 3

NAP Magazine & BooksIndianapolis, INNAPLITMAG.COM

Cover by Miles Donovanwww.thedailyrobot.com

A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN&REMOVES ITSELF

David Tomaloff

“...the bodies have their own light which they consume to live: they burn, they are not lit from outside.”

—Egon Schiele

SOME SCENES, YOU DON’T MASTER

milk is the new cherry, I saidblasting yellow piñata all over the shorewhatever sees you best, I saidmy heart made eyes and left her a mark

why do you want for alligator stories so much,I said—I warned of impending direction,&immediately broke for the door

I had dreams I could make it with a sucker punch;you could say “phantom!” and I could say “next!”the women have strange names, I saidthe trucks, I said, they come by here all the time

MOHAWK SIDEBURN ATTACHMENT KIT

caterpillarslook great on you,I said—caterpillarsare the new butterfly

don’t be an idiotshe said—as if she’dalready begunto build her cocoon

THESE ARE A RITUAL

The dirges were all villages;we melted them into leadwe burned them all down,I said—to make way for the “us”

where is ever the option,the seas to wash it all away;the sins, I said—surely, you don’t thinkthey will ever look for us here

it’s all wrong, she saidwhat, I asked, is wrong?the service and the wine,she said—it really isn’t your best disguise

HONEY, IS THAT ELVIS?

the quarters go there—into the slot, I saidthe joysticks turned and mocked me;I had no idea there were two

these ribs are delicious in harmonymy singing settles into the corner boothand reaches overto undo your tie

windows give me dreams,she said—the kind that come withsucker punches and faces I can’t return

NOTHING IS CORRECT

ok, who put that there,she said—the stupid yellow markshe was pointing to the sun

my embarkment lacked saint wherewithal;in full transistor glory, I mentioned her mistakethat mark is no mark, I said—we barely made it home

later, a pizza &words in a roomthat’s an awful lot of stuck, she saidI said, what you see is the priceof doing business with the moon

TROUBLE HAS A LANGUAGE

every third Friday,we’ll supersize the kids;they’re our only real hope,she said, in trying to keep warm

winter is a thief,I said—I didn’t, just then, dare to mentionwhat was really in my heart:

if the rain had caught fire this very instance,if the fire had caught fire this very day,I’d be content to dance under foot of itas long as “I” and “you”

MY SECOND SHRUGOF THE AFTERNOON

what is the opposite of cotton,she said—she pointed at telephone wiresdated nineteen &thirty-six

it was a question I hadn’theard in a whilenothing, I said—we stopped for a pint of lust

where is your wallet—your spare rib, she said,&don’t tell me you left itback in nineteen &thirty-six

AFTER HORS D’OEUVRES

I pulled a partyfrom the cost of privacy;the lights mysteriously dimmed a bit,but I liked the way it felt

I like the way this feels,I said—unaware my eyes had been dancingwith my tongue but not my cheek

3/4 beat boys make strange lovers,she said—she barely had it all the way out, though,before the drums dropped a plate of grenades

STEREO COMPONENTS

what’s the new dance?she said it again; though,these were not our childrenI cannot say, I said—&didn’t

the song began to pine and lamentit’s loaning to a spent friend,I whispered—I held out my hand&we put the children to bed

in some circles lay monsters,I lay thinking—some circles are pennies&woofer cones and amps

IS THERE LIFE ON MARS?

nothing has seen me this way in years,the bartender said—he tried on his brand new shirt-wigit suits me, he saidhe was right; it did

a hot pink influence waltzedup and down my brainstemit couldn’t be the newsboy;I’d remember him,I thought

what if what I thought was mewas never really me at all,&the real me was currentlywatching this mefrom some planet far,

far awayoh my goodness,I said—I think I’m in love

THIS HYPOTHETICAL SHORE

I often touch the groundlike this before I’m off to sealibrarians don’t do this, I said—they have no desire to even try

brass pirate’s knuckles were the trendamong men who were getting their feet wetyou understand me well, I said—now, help us out to sea

remarkable the sky this day,I said, as if no one were aroundbut no one really is around, I said&that’ll do me just fine

MISS AMERICA

I miss Americayou miss a lot of things,she said—I’m really going to Kansas this time;I’m no longer putting it off

the doorbell laughed asa package was deliveredI’m not surprised at all,she said—I was glad we were still intact

hotdogs and pipe bombsare delicious in mixed companymy only regret,I said—is that we don’t have them more

IT’S ALWAYS JULY

I’m always doing thingslike it’s the middle of Decemberlet’s fornicate a riot, I said—we asked for the check &left

how many people have actuallyseen the Godfather trilogy,I absent-mindedly pondered,almost walking into a door

there was a museum in my heart;I had season passes on indefinite holdI’d walked by from time to time,but never bothered to go in

I SAID I WASN’T SURE

why do you go on like that?like what, I asked—I leaned in attentivelywith one eye on the door

sometimes you speak like Alcatraz,she said—the fact that things should not escapedoesn’t always mean they don’t

you know, there were neverany executions there, I said—trying to make a pointso what’s your point, she said

RECOVERY

sometimes I feel like this on holidaysget the mayor on the phone,I said—I’m calling in the National Guard

the american franchise is dead;though, I don’t say it isn’t a zombiemake sure you get something to eat,she said—I was reaching for my keys

good fiction holds a mapto the minefields of the human conditionthey have truck-stops in Virginia, she said—I said I knew because I have seen them in dreams

IMAGINARY SNOW

good morning, commander!today will be my dayevery day should have a purpose,she said—then I’m calling this one “desire”

I thought I heard itsnowing last night,I said—with cocked headand shot upper lip

there is enough of too muchof a bad good thing,she said—I thought,it’s way too early for this

WHY I’M USELESS, No. 3

there was a great clatter in the yardit sounded like the garden was rebellingit sounds like the garden is rebelling,she said—I said, I can hardly blame it in this cold

have you seen the magic in those birds,she said—I had. I said, I haveI don’t think it was there the last time we were here,she said. I said, maybe you just weren’t looking

if you have something to say,she said, why don’t you just say itI would,I said,if I could remember what it was

YIN & YANG

that mime cheated;he was never actually in a box,I said—I held my finger in an upright position,indicating my furious indignation

I don’t remembersome of my best dreams, she saidhow do you know they’re yours,I said—she said, I know because you’re there

if you think about it,cars are actually quite silly;all that smog and to do,she said—with so very little much to offer

wait. back up.what am I doing there, I askedI was somewhat interestedin what I was potentiallyaccomplishing as she slept

you swim and stop the bullets,she said—which never make it to my heartof course, it’s just a dream, she said& in dreams, the guns don’t actually work

USING HYPERBOLE

what are you reading?it’s my horoscope, I saidthe ocean tells dirty jokes, she saidI said, you should hear it play guitar

there is no nonsense likethe nonsense in my heart,I said—snows fall on mars, I saidas well as on the ocean floor

really, she saidsnow under the sea?it’s not real snow, I saidit’s poetic license of sorts

I should know thatby now,she said—I agree, I said—she really should

MY BABY, SHE’S A PHILOSOPHER

low flying planesmake me uncomfortable,she said—I’m afraid they’ll get stuck there&never come down

you can’t have an answerfor everything,I said—we waited nine minutesfor a lumbering train to pass

look at him there,she said—yes, I said, aviation is wonderfulthe last drunken train car hobbled off;I wondered if the plane had ever come down

MY BABY, SHE’S A LOT OF THINGS

I messed with this for you;it’s a hive of honey beesshe looked uneasythough, she managedto play it off

there are fault linesin my thoughts at night,I said—that explains the earthquakes,she said, I feel in my dreams

I didn’t mean it like that,I said—she said she knewwe stayed awake&laughed until the sun rose

David Tomaloff (b. 1972) | is a writer, photographer, musician, and all around bad influence | likes: jazz | hates: jazz | photography: yes | like you, he is perplexed to consider that he is simply the product of a multitude of both internal and external exerting functions acting in or out of concert at a given time or accumulated over an unspecified period | his work has appeared in fine publications such as Mud Luscious, >kill author, Thunderclap!, HOUSEFIRE, Prick of the Spindle, DOGZPLOT, elimae, and many more. He is the author of the chapbooks, Olifaunt (The Red Ceilings Press), EXIT STRATEGIES (Gold Wake Press) and MESCAL NON-PALINDROME CINEMA (Ten Pages Press) | David Tomaloff resides in the form of ones and zeros at: davidtomaloff.com