Alex Simand: Love in the Time of X
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
love in the time of X
my newest pickup line is cute. it goes like this. I’d say, what are you
hiding from? can we hide together? I’d look up at the sky and
fear, and you’d look up at the sky and fear, and we’d climb into the gnomehole
side-by-side, brushing away the fungus sprouting up around us. we’d
wait there, never returning to the village because all they’d have is
news about the village and by that time all the upright pianos would
start spontaneously playing themselves. outside, a whole mugful of
astral huggers cast their affection through radiation, which is
everything technically, obsessed with the sound of themselves. the
high-pitched insistence of their egos assuming themselves all over the
carpet, which is everything technically. but inside we’d be safe, except
from each other, which is everyone technically. and I’d say something
sweet and that would be enough, because there is no exchange rate
on kindness inside the gnomehole. and one day I’d ask, can we go
outside now and you’d say, this isn’t the story about how everything should stay
the same. I’d nod into the stars, who would nod back. you’d carve a
tree stump into a loveseat and we’d sit like grubs in the ground,
listening for treasure shedding its value. the cellar door would fly
open and you’d say, this world is permanent, just as the boss kicks in the
pillow fort.
astroturf
what if all these astrological compatibility apps are obviously
designed to control procreation? like, puppetmasters. future
explanation: molly, percocet. like, maybe, it’s called giving a shit
because of the side-effects. like, listen, most of us have to buckle up
every morning. some of us have to learn to gallop on crutches. a few
of us never even get to consider what it’s like to be a body. it’s
forbidden. verbotten. because German is unforgiving. because here,
look, this one says that all your pattern partner wants is a learning
fetish. an apple on the desk that looks suspiciously like chekhov’s
gun. this other one says you will build a nest together and it will be
the most superlative nest. of course, the nest will decompose itself,
deconstruct into its individual parts. neat little stack of two by’s and
four by’s and carefully preserved frames of broken glass, waiting for
rehabitation. we already know that homes are transient. but can I tell
you something even more personal? (says the long blonde woman on
the television looking through the one eight hundred) can I tell you
something. being single is lonely. even if you activate the core and
invent whole new muscle groups between the old ones, it’s lonely. or
maybe, and hear me out on this, she says, her mouth inverting
seductively, maybe the planets are actually conspiring to jerk us
around, pulled by faint gravities like marionettes in a bubble bath,
feet sticking to the water. she asks, succumbing to greenscreen now,
what if this is a game? like did you know you can actually own a chess
set that features a president as king. or what if Saturn is an HVAC
repair van with a chipped gold tooth. what if Mercury is a merchant
with a penchant for murder. what if all of this can be undone at the
wag of a finger. don’t count your shucks, she says, now the echo of
a whisper bouncing off a bankvault. if you’re lucky, you’ll get to
pretend to have $200.
right wing internet troll attempts a poem
after being cocktickled into submission, the cop starts knocking. he
smells hollow, like a goldfinch. he says, papers, produce, bonefides. I pull
up my polo to expose my appendix. he makes a face like I slapped
him with the flag. terrible bedside manner. he says, show me your
sutures, like he suspected they were leaking honey, making Disney
eyes as the nerve block starts buzzing. the edge of every mouth is a
razor and this mother lover won’t stop jabbing. a goddamn tea cozy.
too many obvious human functions wafting off his face. except, this
is the edition of sleeping beauty where the sexless prince’s father
turns to stone in a well-assembled foreign armchair. nothing but the
new world could do that to a man. nothing but the better angels at
the other side of the bar drinking the clear liquor. here, our poison is
muddled, like a good brook kicking up silt, or heroin. roll it back to
the oldies. roll it back to the bonfire. roll it back like the first stone.
put it back, the stone. stop being an agent of entropy. stop where you
are. take off your clothes and turn out your ribs. listen for the peat
moss creeping at your heels. this page left intentionally blank.
Alex Simand lives and works in San Francisco, though he was born in Russia and grew up in Toronto, which means he exists in a state of constant cultural confusion. He holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. Alex writes fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry. His work has appeared in Split Lip Magazine, North American Review, Matador Review, Hippocampus Magazine, Apogee, and other publications. His short story, Election Cycle, was a winner of the 2017 Best Small Fictions Prize. Alex is an editor at Meow Meow Pow Pow, a graffiti broadside press. Twitter: @AlexSimand
