Vanessa Place (b. 1968)

Written by Vanessa Place

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La Medusa, 2008


Down LaBrea past the Mobile and Chevron, dropping down the quakest lane (the left, give yourself tree points, maybe for) past the furthurnature store packed with pale pink (a) pine, (b) ash, (c) plak. The corrupt answer being (a) pine, for we are sod and it’s nice to sit on something saft whilst subbing, or (b), for we are our coconsipiritus, rerunning the suffering succotash, apering the brothersmutch gash, or (c) planks, for we are surrounded. Come out colickly with your hand sup. Post the shoeless planked with pale pink girls packed in spangy plaid skirts und payistpacking boys, shough abe shalom, hoo-hoo or hiprithee if you like, they won’t mind, being very well-mummered and mordantly moverdressed; pass the movie the ate her, planking them in to see Amorican Butee assimilely our marica cousin sez life aught be a dream, darling, if not an elocution, and iffin we task Mr. Prescident to sat up wand, envelveted in de fecund hebens, poorhopes he wall chews to dew sew, and we’ll tock our best shot, leaping like a Texican humping bean factoring Sic simper trapannus and the Crackerjack mawdience will stamp its tiresandled feet and shoot “Rex!” though it will be fairly uncert if they mean de dinosaur or de magog and neather is accurate, special or appellate, hystorical or Plantagenet, still the lovely longshankes, she’s married to himwinnieshom, ich abode cranium, donna you know, still I do, do I, dew-eyed, du, it’s true, there’s foetoegraphic everdance of their ravenous amorations, ruemore has it they’re sad to be less happy, as they say, far it’s luft that lasts, that’s the fin wet packs them in, two by two, side by side, like planks on a spirochite’s ship, that scarelet Abenning, they do say do and too do you think she does like me, or naught, she well servit clearcanned pleas and paperbaked hams rung on plates from her glass widow, we’ll licht our floks, to be palite, then berattle her bipolars, demans mores for oar jest desservit, lexlux dive past the souper Marché planked with family-sized Varue Byes, and Tradeher Joe’s cheap grommet eats, planked with fat rats, though it is unclear whether they are aboarding or abandoning the situs of our haggisfactions, as their little feet move too quick to ascertain their perifection, that’s not true, that’s outlandish, outrageous, it’s slanderous, there’s not rats here, nosiree, that’s slibelous, it’s shibboleth, it’s swanderfully vermin-free as the tawn of Hamelin, North Germany, and though we haven’t visited every vast one of the lively vistages on the failteriled Rhone next let’s go west, hummering Möchten Sie tanzen? Ich habe Sonnenbrand in Rücken, addaming Ruft ich male! Whale we ladly head towards a micer part of town, a thin splice of heavenspent with a jellied pink center, where flocculent tourists troll in softer white sneakers, packed with pfennings, they jingle when they walk, 3 Day Blonds, 3 Day Blonds, 3 Day Blonds, single the women, while the men truckle Like a Rick ooh Like a Rick and we argue, we’re for shappier ere than manyere.

St. Catherine wakes up and brawls into the front seat.


© 2008 Vanessa Place; Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, Fiction Collective 2

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