Off to AWP in Chicago. I'll leave you with another graphic short-short story.
A graphic short-short story:
A found short-short story from this week's South Florida Craigslist. A woman looking for a man:
Who would have known that dating would be so hard? Well it is and specially downhere in South Florida. Everyone has a past and a story and everything else. So here goes the list of things I am looking for. I am gonna get specific cause I can.
1. I want a guy between the ages of 26-33
2. White, at least five feet 10 inches
3. Someone from the south, Texas, Oklahoma, Lousiana, you know somewhere like that.
4. Loves or has dogs.
5 Likes to drink Draft beer
6. Watches football
7. Loves to travel
8. takes care of themselves-not a heavy drinker, smoker.
9. No drugs
10. has a good job that they like
11. Likes that I have a great job and is okay with that.
12. Loves funny stuff, dry humor, sarcastic and loves to laugh.
13. has a great amile and takes care of their teeth.
14. has good friends and close with their family
15.is okay with the fact that I am sometimes a handful
16. Loves to be outside and do active things
17. wakes up earily, is a morning person
18. likes kinda being a loner sometimes like me ( we can get wrapped up in our own world)
19. will not hit on my mom
20. will tell me when I am being rediculous
21.likes to watch "The Office"
22. is really lovie dovie after a few drinks.
23. wont get pissy if I smoke after I drink
24. Knows how to grill
25. Will take me to Bali
26. Knows how to dress
27. when he does get me a gift, knows me well enough to get the right one.
28. will teach me how to do stuff I dont know how to do.
29. is a great kisser
30. Wont cheat on me.
31. Will talk when something is wrong and not walk out.
33. wants kids someday...someday later on...
34. has a good last name
35. makes my friends laugh.
36. hates going to the movies
38. is romantic but not cheesey
39. goes commando!
40. likes me alot
So there are a few things I really want. If you have all of these things send me your picture and I will send you mine and we will go from there. I am cute and fun and unliek anyone you have ever met. I am just tired of meeting all the worong ones. I want someone I can stand still with....
I did not find the photograph of Keysha and our incarcerated correspondant, but I did find the envelope! Pito's real name is Prince Bingham, and he is an inmate at the Watertown Correctional Facility in New York. I Googled his name and found two Prince B's in trouble with the law. The first Prince was arrested in Hanover, Jamaica, for throwing stones at his neighbor's house. He pled guilty, but explained in court: "Mi and har don't talk and she always a see mi and a throw har word. I was going to a show wit a friend dat day and she si mi an call out to mi and den she throw some substance out of a chimney and sey: 'teck day bway." I get ignorant and I throw a stone and it bounce, snd through di winda balde neva screw up it slide out, Your Honour. Your Honour, I decide to fix it back."
As much as I'd like to believe he was our Prince, I think it's more likely that the Bronx Prince arrested outside Rochester, New York, is our man. He was caught buying video game systems with fake credit cards and bogus drivers licenses. One of the stores he robbed was in Irondiquoit, where Cindy's from. Anyway, Prince pled guilty and testified against his accomplice, which may explain his jailhouse anxieties. he's twenty-eight, which seems a little young for all his ailments.
There’s an Edward Hopper print on the wall above the popcorn cart. Gas. He’s not a mechanic this slight man in vest and tie, bald as a Binghamton poet. Proprietor, more likely, checking the sales’ figures on these tall red pumps. Triangles of adamant light spill from the neat clapboard filling station onto the driving lanes. Across the narrow blacktop road a sandy ditch and a wave of palomino-colored grass lapping at the trunks of mute and glorious fir trees. The lighted sign above the station advertises Mobilgas. Pegasus seems about to leap the trees. Pegasus, the winged horse sprung from the blood of the slain Medusa. Pegasus, who opened the fountains of Hippocrene with a kick of his mighty hoof. Le cheval volant, Pegasus, chez les narines des feu! Pegasus, steed of the Muses, always at the service of poets, poets like Hokey Mokey, love’s self-appointed watchman, and like us kids on O’Connell Street in Requiem, Mass., when we would walk by Jolicoeur’s Mobil station and scream at the top of our unpuddled lungs, Up your ass with Mobilgas!
In a moment, the proprietor will take in those cans of motor oil, stack them by the windshield-wiper display, will cut the lights on the sign and in the station, will lock the door. He’ll drive home. He lives alone. His house is cozy, neat, but unadorned. He’ll fry eggs and bologna, listen to the radio as he eats, listen for the news from Europe where the Germans have claimed the Sudetenland. He’ll save the milk he has not finished. He’ll wash the dish, the fry pan, the glass, the fork, and the knife. He’ll read a book in the living room. Zane Gray. The bartender announces last call, tells me she has to be at her day job at seven. She’s an LPN at a convalescent home. I walk back to Room 128.
--from Requiem, Mass.