Of course she grew out her hair (note—insert something here)
Julia Tranchina


Once upon a time when there was no longer an ending. On a day when Dodger fans were working. A woman tossed off a dozen highballs then demanded an interesting story. You mutter something about a digital perm machine. Nonsense is never pure. And he says no, no way! This is a cock display. I never said I wished to build a bear. Then something went wrong. Establish what it is. My kids were at home building a Jewish shack. Flirting with an ordinary apartheid state. I could not hold conversation, because they all immediately fled. And she says she’ll just die. Of course they were Spaniards not Italians. The lady is cruel and indifferent, thus, the poet suffers greatly. Her regret. She shakes her head to show what she wants and what she doesn’t want. It’s not easy having a good time! If you take away all the saints what is left to you? Particles could be somewhere. A is big B is not meaning, A is bigger than B. I wait for my turn to talk. You must deconstruct your expectations. If I sit here long enough my past will circle round once or twice. Looks like we’re due for an environmental scan. Resist. She begins to code shift. Imagine the end of recognition. It appears she has returned. I don’t care about imitating narratives. I believe that death is death. Do we have to do this now, right now? I’m tired and going to bed, you stay here. This one baby doll, goes out to you. I was once kissed by a girl with a violent vision. Imagine how it feels to behead Columbus with a sledgehammer. There was a momentary displacement. Sadness brought on by shameful actions. Creature features. She’s lost her wood. It was awful and she did away with all evidence of her. I drift off when dreams are mentioned. What I like more than anything is the real surprise. I was fortunate to forget love. And I was glad to take a wife. I hand her a Columbus Day stress ball courtesy of the Head Injury Recreation and Leisure Network. Have you lost your wits? We brace for impact. That’s my bed only and don’t knock my building down. A story within a story. What is the purpose of yard inflatables? The dream of bright, green, grasshopper wings. She looks exactly as she did before she met you. Meaning is never pure. You were really going somewhere. I have recollected. Please do not question our future. Where beamish girls are smashed to bits! Don’t stay up late, it’s not worth it. I got all existential, like shit, what is life about? You are the one. I find blank more interesting.


Julia Tranchina’s writing has also appeared in Barrelhouse, Monkeybicycle, Ohio Edits and Quail Bell. She lives with her wife and three-year-old twins in San Jose, California.