from The Ditties
In the dream, trying to talk about materiality. Is it like grace. My vase turns orange, and we are all witches, in school.
A hankering for photograms and hands. He says no motive questions, types in bed. The day is short. I was trying but I failed.
Shoes off to go upstairs. Yellowed pages on the walls. Didn’t know until I knew and then the hardwood soothed. Working dude, date night.
It’s simply titled onion slice. Their matching gingham. She puts on her hood and closes her eyes. The gooey stuff is grated yam.
Now she taps her teeth. In those movies, someone’s always opening a beer hall. A plate of scrapple, please. This is a purple pen.
They have heart. The paper torn, the advertising crane. The letter’s lip an hour off. Pennsylvania’s calling and I miss you.
Kicked out of choir in the dream. The fish’s golden eye, big as a sheep’s, its poinsettia skin. She hunches over the head.
My language long long ago. The worst is the idea of her sadness. To copyedit the body. Dinosaurs ruled the earth.
I hesitate to open stones. So much for my attempts at suspense. Hot pepper beauty over there and I hope he’s early.
Frap bois with crystalline headphones. There’s a spigot for beer and a spigot for foam. Looking up to sprout, to bud. A status thing.
Don’t Ophelia yourself, the yakuza shouts. Love in the Chinese tapas place. New renewal is now open. ‘Night ladies.
What’s your hobbit number? The nail that stands out gets pounded down, he says. I sound too strand. The police car speaker rebukes her.
Do not push the album covers. Domani is a monthly magazine for working women. Pull tabs, charmingly analog.
Domestic eel prices are dropping. Seven days away think I thought I heard you say. The lattice like structure serves as a sucker.
Permission for use of road line. Lo the last order and minitech ducks. We reach one chrome, sliced okra, slippery seaweed.
On TV they reenact the tsunami. Our little cups are freckled. Now fuse boxes in water. I practice saying sauce.
It’s from the fist that is the model for pancake fish, the eggs like long brains. Would you rather eat maggots or George Clooney’s hemorrhoids?
It’s the welcomingist cat. On the right, striped jack. He’s been to the Philippines. I gasp when he slops the sake. Rice from the north.
Tengu under the zima montage and a pro wrestling costume on the antique road show show. Maximum 100 beers.
Tokyo bula bula twilight, the book. I’ll call directly you’re settled. Gas lights go up, gas lights go down. It wasn’t me.
Stephanie Anderson is the author of In the Key of Those Who Can No Longer Organize Their Environments (Horse Less Press) and Variants on Binding (forthcoming, National Poetry Review Press). Her recent chapbooks are Charting Practice: A Fictive Assay (Double Cross Press), LIGHTBOX (forthcoming, The New Megaphone), and Sentence, Signal, Stain (forthcoming, Greying Ghost). She edits Projective Industries and currently lives in Tokyo.