A Handfull of Quickies

Randall Stevens
A Handful of Quickies Written Over Break
11 January 2009

---“12 Words Describing a Nightmare”---

Being pursued, my screams are swallowed in darkness.
I can't keep pace.


---“33 Words About a Strong Scent Memory”---

A chemical resin perfuses the air. Like many cleansers sloshing together in a bucket, the mixture is more toxic than clean. Synthetic death. Ten years later, anatomy is bigger in humans than cats.


---“What's Going on Here?" [asked to describe an abstract Kandinsky work in 7-15 lines]---

-“Pressed hard against the wall of truth, I watch the future race by on a thousand children's faces.
-The life of a sea-monkey is transient at best – drifting hither and thither on the whims of an undulating current. I was one of the lucky ones, lifted from my depravity by the most unlikely of circumstances: I was eaten. Swallowed, I suppose, is more accurate as no digestion ever occurred. In the mouth and out the gills, I was glued to the aquarium glass by a globulous conglomeration of discarded barracuda ingestions.
-So here I rest, lying in wait for the algae eater I know will come. But most minutes I don't think about that. I just watch the children pass just behind the glass and wonder where they'll take the world.”


---“I am a Bouquet in the Back of a Florist Van. Describe Myself and My Destination.”---

-“Hey purple guys! Whatcha doin' tonight?” said John, the queen of night tulips garnished with bleeding hearts.
-“We goin' on a date, bitches!!!”
-“Wow, okay. “What about you, roses? Uh,” Jon held back a smirk, “Valentines Day again?” The whole van broke out laughing.
-“If you gentlemen must know,” the dozen red roses spoke from their crystal vase, “We were chosen to be presented to the Lady, Diandre, on this the eve of her sixteenth birthday, may it be eternally sweet in her memory, and-”
-“Ok, Ok,” a Brooklyn accent gristled from the back, “Enough from the classic.” The bouquets stopped rustling their leaves, and the van went quiet.
-“H- hows it going, Val?” John asked. A pause. “Uh, where ya headed? Another, uh, war scene, huh?” Somewhere near the front a primrose cutting slapped a shaking poinsettia quiet.
-“Value #9," he started, "Stands for one ting, assholes: Cheap!” An older easter lily wilted. “It's whatcha send ya dead uncle's widow. It's whatcha send ya cheating wife before you know for sure. It's a junky's missed anniversary tree weeks too late, or da last nine bucks of some alkie's paycheck.” He sighed, pulling a creased petal from his visage and muttering, “God I need an aspirin...”
-Looking up, he sneered. “You shrubs just love ya war stories, dontcha? Well, here's one for ya:
-You all tweak the average day; ya bring sunshine for a minute den it's gone, poof, like a snuffed cigarette. But, me, every now and den, I make a difference.”


---“A Hobo Poem to the Rhythm of the Train Tracks Passing Underneath”---

ta-duh-duh ta-duh-duh
Whee! Whee!
ta-duh-duh
Whee! We
Be goin on the
Night Train
the the
Night Train on the the
Steel Road, Long Road
to the way we go
Whee! We be goin
Whee! We be goin on on
ta-duh-duh
on on the
Steel Road, Long Road
on
duh-duh
to
duh-duh
the Next Stop
Whee! Whee! Whee!
Stop.