The year was 1969 again, and I was light-years overdue for a shag.
Flying to the nearest bar for a top shelf Margarita IV drip,*
I bumped into the hottest astronaut who wore a disco ball helmet,
and Technicolor Dream Jacket and absolutely nothing else underneath
thanks to the X-ray Specs I always pack on my time trips.

Most women find the male naked form more utilitarian than beautiful,
but when his carbon based flesh and bone sculpture bumped into me,
I saw a future of twisted, sweat-soaked sheets turned to ropes
tethering our spent torsos as we floated in a lofty hotel room
after closing time, after a long kiss goodnight.

Interrupted by a grumpy bartender, we moved the action
to the leathery back seat of my infinite time machine.
We shared mind-expanding stories of our time traverses
and we kissed again—after he removed his sequined helmet—
and his eyes reminded me of the oceans of Xenon.

I wanted to fly there then, but the IV had taken effect quickly,
so we floated outside after securing and hiding our time rides.
The hot astronaut didn’t waste time when we checked-in.
In a seedy roadside motel room, he showed me the right stuff—
then slept like a baby as I crept out the door to call a taxi to 2009.

*Margarita IVs were invented in the year 2056. A young woman, coincidentally named Marguerite Le Fleur, teleported to the year 1967 and introduced the future craze to an insane Tequila distributor. Incidentally, crappy psychedelic garage bands performing in dive bars all began to sound better than The Beatles.

I speak to him in silent movies
and the soundtrack is Graham Reynolds
playing funk organ at the Alamo Drafthouse
while soldiers on the screen drop like flies in soup
with 40% less sodium than the regular brand.

I speak to him in Morse code,
tapping my feet to the rhythm of his music-
sending out an “S-O-S”…
But the lady on the radio drowns the sound
and the tinnitus of heartache rings.

People talk too much and don’t listen enough,
to the loops and feedback, bleeps and bloops
of pertinent data to discern the root of the tale,
tangled and buried underneath crossed cables-
vessels of the homo sapiens heart.

Soderbergh’s communication breakdown masterpiece
is drowned out by the Led Zeppelin remix overdub
on the drive-in movie screen while we make out-
and “she’s climbing- she’s climbing- she’s climbing…”
my nails scratch your back because I’m speechless.

Now you’re on a cruise somewhere in the gulf
sending me flag signals I can’t see from the shore,
and I’ve stopped waiting for the code to break
and reveal my secret message to you-
to stay in communication.

Back to back denials of eating flesh
confound love for the young plastic lovedoll.
It comes to life-a civilized cannibal with a camera-
eating raw emotions, spooning heart and liver
to a rock ‘n’ roll soundtrack pumping hormones
and teenage sex through speakers in our heads.
“Lovedoll’s so punk, it doesn’t even know it,”
never escapes lips frozen in a frame like words-
pinned under glass for human display
in a museum curated by monarch butterflies.

Police conversation, “Where have you been?!”
echos on the wall, tilting pictures of boy and girl ballet dancers.
Art collecting questions seemed endless,
stretching tights into body stockings into twisted nylon ropes.
The late dancer-competing with the frame-cradles her tummy.

She put on a smiling face for the crowd,
stumbling only once during her latest performance:
Not minding the curb and a kid on a bike,
she stubs her big toe on the block in her right shoe.
Ignoring the discomfort, she makes it to the clinic on time.

Two Sisters at Union Station (1980)
by diy danna

Waiting for the Amtrak in D.C. two elderly women sit,
bronzed statues on a bench at the station
coming to life with shelled peanuts and gossip.
The sightseeing sisters talk about lives in two states.

The eldest, Maria, dyes her hair coal black
and reads Novenas with black coffee and
cornbread with milk for breakfast.
She almost left her husband in 1945 and 1961.

The youngest, Bonita, lets her temples go gray
and solves crosswords with a blue Bic and
curses when she makes a mistake over tea.
Her first husband died in 1944. She remarried in 1947.

Maria lives in East Texas and confides,
“Anna lives in Houston now and doesn’t know how to cook.
That African husband of hers cooks fish stew and
odd grainy stuff supposed to look like rice, but it’s not.”

Bonita-who lives in East New Jersey-replies,
“Women these days say there’s no time with work.
Martin is always tired, cooking and taking care of things
’cause my DeeDee never cooks or cleans their home in Brooklyn.”

The sisters continue criticizing grown-up children, and doting
on perfect, smart and beautiful grandchildren.
The arrival of the last afternoon train is announced.
Grand Central is the final stop-before The Fantasticks.

“Remember when we had to sit in separate cars
from the white folks?” Maria stands up and stretches.
“On the train from Texas to Utah in 1942
they made me switch cars and wait ’til supper was cold.”

“Oh, it was bad when I visited Stephen, rest his soul, in Baltimore.
Before he shipped off I took the train to meet him,”
Bonita recollects, “and they packed us all in like big stale sardines
in the tiniest tin you can imagine. No, I don’t miss those days.”

Maria and Bonita walk arm in arm up the north breezeway.
To most of the commuters they look like two old women,
walking too slow to catch a train at the decayed station.
But the sisters make it in time, feeling like young war brides.

crossing woman hollering creek
by diy danna

the year was 1993 – back to campus in fall.

mother is driving and i’m listening to de la soul

on the walkman – not disturbing the car radio.

on the highway in the slow afternoon, i’m reading signs.

I thought I loved the coolest guy in Austin once.

Craig Liszt.
He’s on the internet and plays keys,
but isn’t related to that Craig’s List or Franz.
Yet his simple strokes are genius flourishes.

How it happened:
One sweltering summer night Craig made love to the jukebox at The Parlor and told me that Tom Waits dreams in sepia like Kansas in the Wizard of Oz. From that moment – maybe even before that – I worshiped Craig.

How I joined His Cult:
I flipped off a jerk in traffic in His holy name. Baptism by profanity.

I wanted to know Craig’s real birthday (fuck December 25th),
to send Him a singing telegram-
a clown with instructions to my Id and Super Ego.

How Craig answered my prayers:
He read my breasts in my dreams like scripture, and I called out His name in vain as I woke up.

He journeyed to the desert,
a Simon in the Buñuel film.
He’s fasting and praying to rock music,
fasting and praying to rock music.

Is His middle name David?

As I sit here in my cubicle avoiding work and eye contact with co-workers, I must voice my opinion that this song sucks. That little girl needs to wake up and smell the coffee. Well, she may not be able to drink coffee at her age, but you know what I mean… Anyway, “Unicorns” aren’t real. I have known this since I was 5-years-old, and have been been determined to debunk this “Unicorn Theory” when I asked for a Unicorn for my birthday and it never appeared! And that “Unicorn” in the video looks fake. I mean, it fits in her hand and looks to be made up of some kind of cheap pink plastic. Come on!

a girl rolls snow into a shape,
a dented globe the size of a baseball
shaken in the cold froth
of southeast texas air-
making her dizzy again.
it’s suspended liquid animation,
waiting for the snow to fall again
climbing the crystal steps
to get to her sweetheart,
bringing back the high five
instead of big hugs and
telling her best friend
almost everything she did today-
a snow day.
i’m her silly fraternal twin, singing,
and swinging in lover limbo
above the shallow creeks of hell,
below the plateau of heaven,
iced with slushy snubs.
her future is in melting snow,
frozen pity turned to liquid hatred-
and laughing at drunken fools
who pee in the snow and call it art,
and laughing at ourselves for watching.

I cheated on my taxes and my husband,
and blamed a lack of appreciation.
After placing his penis in a vice
to the delight of video voyeurs,
I called an attorney, my new bottom.

Discipline

My new sub never complains about the handcuffs
and stuffing his mouth with cotton balls.
The beatings started when he forgot
my birthday and our anniversary-
the first time I spanked him with a spoon.

Sadism

Electronic Harmony is a myth for online romantics
afraid to use vibrators and beads on bad boys
who refuse to put down the toilet seat.
My ex-husband claimed misrepresentation of intentions,
and I claimed he couldn’t take it in the ass like a real man.

Masochism

My ex’s new girlfriend is not a top like me.
She squeaks like a toy mouse
when he’s out with the boys
but she’s a silent martyr in bed.
Some women enjoy being stoned by love.