What Jack Dempsey Knew About his Waist
Francis Bacon took one look at Jack Dempsey’s forward foot and circled it. They were in the ring together, collaging heads. Dempsey was an orgy of appropriate music, the coil in his abdomen twisting like a charmed snake. In his right hand all the muscles of his back and torso shuddered to describe a beat down on the body opposite. Dempsey lunged. Bacon, foot in mouth, glared out through his gap teeth. Dempsey struck. Bacon morphed into an orange backdrop. Whoever called the fight must have seen it, the fist, useless and planar, shattering whatever depth was in its reach.
Sometimes I don’t leave my house for no reason. Sometimes I keep watch on nothing in particular. My kids ask what I’m looking at. What are you looking at, daddy? they say. I tell them, whatever I can get. My shrink says I’ve got to include them more in things, says I’ve got to make the world a dialogue and pull them into it. So I start asking them questions. What am I looking at? I ask them. What do you see out that window? They look confused. Say they don’t see anything. Say there’s nothing out there at all.
Skirts on the Ruffle (after Nicki Minaj)
Bitches intersex a hefty bottle, then yell my wrists into a wet and holy disco. These birds is softer than Al Dente, cut from a different muzzle. I used to drink water. Fly south in winter. Eat scissor-legs on the mat with my foot up. But the birds. They want my hard automobile monster. They want my over-seas figure. I’m the ninja, the real queen chicken dinner. Bitches survive to want the ninja. Bitches how you get to be the ninja. Tag team someone’s ligament like stereo. Stack altitude, climb money in the back of someone’s video.
I saw him yesterday. His face was usurped by a rag-tag emotion. He was doing his usual thing; verbing nouns, queering spaces, slaughtering anecdotes, being generally a clever little shit although he was naive. He told me he’d conditioned thoughts to shout my future in the present tense, meaning he could read me backwards. I was skeptical. But then he started hollering: You are There! You are There! You are There! and I had to admit he was onto something. I gave him a pretzel. We talked for a while about aerospace refuse. I completely forgot where I was.
Mary Wilson was born in Worcester, Massachusetts. She currently lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where she is pursuing an MFA in Literary Arts at Brown University.