The Bombed Blonde by Daniel Altenburg


The Bombed Blonde

 

This is my bubbling brain
you’re scooping, Ms. Esmé. This club
sure as hell carbonates my logic.
Howbout you break your nail on that pop tab?
Howbout you count seatbacks
to exits before takeoff? How
about we sit in the sun and parse emerge
from exits?
There will be drinks.

Oh god, there will be drinks!
There will be drinks available for purchase
upon request.
 
But here, the fat girl on a barstool
spins her seat into the ground.
And this shouldn’t be about weight
(her rum and diet) but the sun
and not the moon.
      The sun puckers. And you think like lipskiss,
but I mean asshole.
The sun puckers like an asshole, and it’s a good thing.
I have no shame.
Here’s your thrust pun:
fucked my friend’s sister
while her guy walked from the room.
I’m sorry. I didn’t imagine her as you,
though she was.
 
Esmė, tell me
about how a woman contorts herself
to fit a man’s lap
because she can’t sleep
upright and alone. What with the lack of leg space
and fibrous seats. We can all agree on this
and the difference between descent and decent,
as in, months after our descent, I
came out decent—dressed and tonguing decently.
And we did not
descend.
 
You twist a gasper
to breathe fragments of the processes
that get 220,000 off the ground.
Because an ancillary result
can satisfy.
 
The fat bitch ogles from the floor.
Her gravitation lets us just float,
thankfully. Here’s my blonde in retrograde,
skim her clavicle with my nose,
says Again,
focus on the nape and curvature
of spacetime. With a clenched fist
of hair she dips
past oblivion, smells of it.
 
I don’t know what’s worse:
The physics
or her holding her own
to swing and smile
and moan out to the dj I love this
song
     or gin
       from juniper.
       Whiskey from grain.
       Fairings of Kevlar
       to decrease drag.
I’d ask where you’re from, but we know
that room behind my lids.
The window seat shade pulled
because the sun bothers.
 
So here’s my neutral grain spirit.
Mens sana in corpore sano.
From the mind we strive
for insanity.
     Proof in the body
shot. ‘Shall we keep dancing,
Ms. Blonde?’ One dip for yes,
two for more, gyrations syncopate.
Appreciate etiquette.
Esmė, can we just say
we have them for the warmth?
 
Here, here, to the slow burn of this blonde
pinching a cigarette.
The way her glare tastes
the fat bitch on the floor.
The it we spin around.
I know you think blonde’s mean,
I’m mean.
I just mean there’s a fatty and we know it
and are gracious enough not to clap our hands.
Do you applaud your sun
every morning
for burning?
 
You haven’t lived
‘til you’ve treated a girl poorly.
How shots pass to patrons like light
through liquor.
 
Ms. Esmė, tell me how a woman contorts
into a man’s mind and leaves her fuselage.
 
______________________________________________________

Daniel Altenburg just completed his MFA at The University of Arizona. Daniel enjoys making lists of undoubtedly true, autobiographic facts to share with the public, the vulgarity in the colloquial, and licking between your synapses. He currently resides in Tucson, and loves that it’s 76 in January.