18

blame bukowski I

a woman
talking like an infant to

praying that she’ll sneeze just to make
it stop.
Bukowski in my lap.
waiting brilliantly for me
to continually be amused by
his rantings.
And I am.
OH HOW I AM.
observing a lemon square on a
twisted piece of cellophane
waiting for me like a fickle man
or thing.
a styrofoam case-holding the
corpse of a salad.
remnants contain a few shreds o
lettuce-a pile of olives
and a dab or two of fat free
ranch in its corners.
and I wait.
for 3 o’clock to come.
for 4 o’clock to be over-
for the tick tock of 8.
I rejected the quartet of
saltines I was given.
and my green eyed monster is
the only thing keeping me awake
tonto could try.
but he’d end up just.
just shaking me like a bottle
of chocolate milk.
the girl that road my ass
on the highway going
90-that day-always
Smiles.
next time she’ll buy me a
new car.
its like she doesnt know it
was me.
Post-its mirroring my sanity.
the heat outside is uncertain

and the wind is manipulative
my tongue twitching to the tune
of a million lemon merchants
and I am forking the treat
with analytical observation.
It took me ten (10) Dollars to
get here-
and not one cigarette
all day.
squish-boom-bang-clank
voices all intertwined calling out the same
thing
same name
inspired by
virtual anarchy.
symptoms update.
i’m always updating.

by Jennifer E. Hudgens

jennifer e. hudgens, black sheep, idiosyncratic,
prefers own universe to the company of others, pessimistic optimist,
obsessive compulsive, working on being a recluse, currently plotting
to burn all of her notebooks… never been published,
but is currently having a passionate love affair with words,
which has spanned a great deal, if not most of her life…
there is a small ceremony being held in the spring…
the couple is registered at staples. can’t wait to see what happens next.