Tag: depression

poor fish

A one-act play.

“A walk in the park becomes an earnest spiral of naive morality when a mother and her young daughter happen on a fisherman.”

THE SCENE
A suburban park surrounding a lake, during a mild day in early-Spring. Present Day.

THE CAST
A Man, 60s, spending his day fishing.
A Girl, under 10, who happens upon him.
Her Mom, late-20s/early-30s, her guardian.

*

LIGHTS UP. A MAN stands alone off to stage-left, facing away from the audience, casting off with an imaginary fishing rod. There are sounds of a public park: birds; wind; and the resting of water. There is a bench beside the man and on top rests his backpack, a cooler, and some other miscellaneous items: he is set up to be standing there for the day.

ENTER a little GIRL, clad in a one-piece rainsuit, jumping on-stage from stage-right into imaginary puddles with her yellow boots. Her MOM follows her. The girl is singing a little song.

MOM
Honey, don’t go off too far!

GIRL
I won’t!

The girl circles back to Mom. Near her, the girl falls on her bum. Mom helps her up.

MOM
Good thing we bought you this rainsuit!

GIRL
Mom, I’m going to be all wet!

MOM
You won’t. It’ll be like magic.
Stand here a second. Watch that man.

They watch the fisherman.

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pick it off

A poem.

the olive-coloured pant tells all.
even Justin Bieber can’t refute a rebuke
to this single truth
although you might catch him being proud –
especially the times when Hailey is around.
Those Baldwins are known to run afoul.

every nerve, every tendon –
enough visual information
to make a guy think he’s got you pegged.
a lighter-hued pant makes us less well-behaved
in public
while we stare at everything below the waist
that we can save for later in your wake
of our own partner’s haste.

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i’m not looking for a four-day weekend

(i’m just looking for a pot to puke in)

A poem.

she doesn’t have any hips
and she doesn’t have an ass –
though she hides what she has under two-size-too-big sweatpants;
her voice is shrill and argumentative
and she doesn’t have any tits,

but she’s only 18,
so she’s just right for me.

she has no experience on matters of life and death,
and when you ask her how she feels,
her expression is bereft –
she only knows enough just to skirt on the fringes
of friendships contingent on how they look:
you know about Thrasher magazine. that’s a bonus.
now maybe you could reward yourself with a donut.

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