Yulan’s “Lasagna Girl” as it turns out is more aware of the undercurrent of the fragile state the internet had become over the
past two decades of neglect. Ricotta has to still be purchased from the store, the distribution line always sending a rotten product
and so many chain restaurants still sold the rancid thing thinking that it naturally smells like Fruit Loops served with buttermilk.
But this little word of beers Corona not Covid never had a graffiti line and moving spray paint cans around seemed to solve the
community service issue and the assigned police lookouts for the underground after that asterisk looking letter seemed to mark
first vowels, then words, then eyes of the cartoons in social realism wall litter, then vowels and then the trash can was removed
forever and trash went into some people’s pockets and for others onto the ground.
It was on this rare occasion of the missing trash can the only difference being the strange neon palm tree Corona neon light
that has nearly instantly appeared ’in a bar nearby. Jennifer hesitated about what to do with her newfound trash understanding.
Her typical route argued she buy coffee at the designated area, drink it, dispose of the empty paper cup and catch the bus. The
first instinct is to buy a plastic reusable cup, but they wouldn’t have those unless a thermos price was listed and it wasn’t. The
Lasagna may now be on ’beer forever’ assigning her into the terrorist land of imitation simulation with the historical trashcan
prostitute to mark time on the lamppost of the evening to see if the homeless man who was the evening walker gathered the cup
to steal a soft drink at the site that was serve yourself near the sidewalk curb that was seemingly at one point accidentally
chiseled, but the trashcan disappearance seemed to take the damage to the curb away as well. Yet they still never came to paint
the fire-lane. To throw it away in the bar seemed the best option. Going into the bar she noticed they did not have a trashcan
near the door and immediately regretted not investigating the bar prior to the neon sign. No matter, she had been labeled a
whore before and she no more preferred key lime pie, and this definitely was not a door stopper. Julia Roberts must surely wear
pink eyeshadow and Mexican strawberry tres leches are served with pink champagne. Movie imitations really are the best ones
when you know which creep the real life focuses on in reality and this has no New Mexico flair, tar speaks fluent Puerto Rican.
Must be Lehman brothers. She smiled knowing the creeps are not protected by jail just quite yet… she knew from her pretend
boyfriend of the future they were already in jail in his past. Her automatically programmed reality was from her point of view a
Mandela. A result of a backdoor placed here by one was unsure of whom, if it was this one though she didn’t need a hacker, she
knows the cast away sticks of the broken neck guitar where strings were purchased and then they were not should surely already
have a new chord by now. This was more her comfort zone. The annoyance of being required to know computers and obtain a
piece of paper wherein a field they already designed the exit gate for women right into the loving embrace of a human trafficker
seemed pointless.
Why not order a beer? Surprised to find from the look of the man with definitive angular facial features and a bulbous cranium
exclaimed the look of an Africa African bar tender. She sat on the stool that did indeed move back and forth like that of a piano
though never to adjust the height. The minute he spoke, she fell into the old routine, but never about the accent because there
was no ornamentation tray present. She smiled and lowered her eyes slightly adjusted her voice into a slight Midwestern tone, “I
have never been in here before… I have been tempted and I finally decided what the heck, what corner is this anyway? Steel and
COVID
ommerce?”
The minute he spoke aloud, his accent definitive and a voice that echoed an assumption of South Africa more than likely, his
African origin would naturally beg an inquisitive mind. “You are today, my first customer. How can I delight you?” His smile
showing all his bright teeth, a trained facial expression, his shirt a basic red polo with an embroidered logo featuring a Palm tree
and coconuts with ’Dap’s Tavern’ in small print. He wore black slacks with the straight leg Dockers look and a braided leather
belt that looked late 80s. Hard to find one new in 2005. Jennifer noticed the bar seemed free from sticky residue as he set his
hands on the top of it in front of his customer.
“Oh you are a refreshing scene, I find Corona to be most delightful to quench my thirst.” Jennifer already knew this is stage
and the most she could do is watch the old fire sprinkler ceiling that was no longer allowed in code restriction, but legally was
allowed due to the buildings age, the bar itself remodeled with a polyurethane coat that most have the new materials of
micro-polymer something or another applied in the formula which is why it was not tacky in texture, it was more than likely post
2000 technology, but with the ways the trucks moved these days it was hard to tell.
“Excellent choice, a crisp Corona to bite into an unusual hot day like today.” He turned and pulled a frozen mug from the
top-slide-open-easy-bevair and had an attached chain to his belt loop that allowed him to remove the top of the beer turn pouring
it into the glass throwing away the bottle without scraping the label.
“Do you mind tossing this in your trashcan?” Sitting an empty disposable coffee cup on the bar she waited patiently as he
picked it up and atop the beer broke it there do go. “Thanks. This place is is really quite I guess I best the rush, they say this
neighbourhood is a great investment site. Has this place been here long?”
“We have been open for many years, other businesses come and go, but only we remain. We have very loyal customers.
They appreciate our quick and clean service.” He watched her for a moment and smirked when she at last took a sip of her beer.
He turned away to start folding paper napkins, placing them in a triangle stack and sorting the little stacks into little odd
triangle-shaped boxes. Jennifer watched the bar carefully and other than the little stacks he was making she understood that
graffiti was the pivot to the ash-tray that city ordinance removed years ago nothing moved.
She finished her beer and said, “I better get going if I’m going to catch my bus. Your right, this bar is very clean, how much?”
“A mere five dollars including tax. Yes our bar is very convenient to the bus stop.” Jennifer left ten dollars on the bar got up
and and walked towards the door waving and smiling as she opened the door. She cut down the shimmy-alley to take a look at
the dock. She did her best to memorize the back end, noting they had the new fire line hose that was tied into the wall briefly
wondering if they had adequate pressure to the line. She saw a pallet leaning against the wall seemingly a board was missing not
that odd but she didn’t notice the board missing at first glance. That pallet could be twenty years old. Her normally neutral
expression swayed to look slightly annoyed. She walked five blocks out of her way and missed her bus to catch a different one
that would take her to the main station. She in the end took the train and walked twenty blocks to arrive at her sublet efficiency
before the sun went down.

THE HEIGHTS
Yulan walked in, his dad was listening to the Yankees and as custom asked with a hesitant voice, “what’s the score?”
“Oh, hello kiddo, I’m sorry you asked, it’s a feint. The whole of it is rigged, its a gimmick. They keep paying these people and
that batter boy is over 40, still can’t figure out he never had a mitt for a left handed hockey goalie.” He got up and walked in the
kitchen turned the ceiling fan on. He pulled out a plate from the refrigerator removed the cheesecloth napkin placing it in the
dish-drainer. “You want some pickle-loaf?”
“Thanks, I would have a tad. Have we got any relish?”
“Here,” reaching into the fridge his father pulled out relish and mustard and cheese. “We are out of bread, get some tomorrow
will ya? You want the crackers or that biscuit thing your mother made?”
“Have you tried the biscuit?”
“No, she put baking soda in it. That baking soda was in the fridge for four years. Those crackers are safer, they have a five
year shelf life I don’t care what the box says.”
“Oh I’ll try it, the biscuit thing? I knew you could brush your teeth with baking soda but didn’t know you could cook with it.”
After the first bite he did slather a bit of extra mustard but in defense the relish was a bit heavy to begin with and very quickly are
the biscuit the size of a bun.
“So you got your cap and grown back from the cleaners. Ready to go, right? You are all done with the grades? Don’t have
any surprises?”
“No, smooth sailing.” He smiled purposely reassuring.
“Good, smooth sailing, I’m gonna go to bed. Your mother had a headache.”
“Night, dad.” Yulan went into his room. He looked at his couch-bed and his computer picked up his cell and connected his
tether internet. It was a true conspiracy about the wireless cell phone tether interface, he was curious if that IT girl knew more but
he only had a few classes with her and what little he talked to her it seemed absurd to see if she wanted more. He already knew
that she was on the honors list so she must understand some of the things about networking he didn’t. He already knew the
Scripted
cable, phones, and the cellular were all on new carriers. He didn’t know where these installation people came from nor how they
got enough money to live where they were living, strange accents and the few places he would frequent has such a high
turnaround on employees he never could really figure alot of them out. He tried to go to the same cell phone store but then he
couldn’t get the same person at pretzel stand. Getting to know someone was impossible. He never saw new graffiti and no one
ever buffed the old graffiti, some of it was at least ten years old. He lost touch with his high school friends and anyone who could
afford to move, moved. He could not fathom how people could afford cars. He finally got his internet working, he still wrote things
down on paper before typing anything and decided to put one step forward picking up his address book, and wrote the smart
bagel lady an email. He wanted to ensure she didn’t get the wrong idea, he only wrote her about classes mainly just to contact
someone he saw almost daily and he always got the same dog walker, but he needed to build some form of business relationship
with her. Having the same routine was not enough. He thought she was to her professional nature, not seemingly attractive, not
ugly but not a head-turner, but she may know more about the type of business venture he felt would be necessary to survive. He
already knew neither of them were important enough in the scheme of things to draw to much attention, but she had no
personality whatsoever. Oddly, he thought that may be why I think she is perfect to figure out how to get money when not one
person wants to hire someone from his neighborhood.
The instantaneous email he received back was just as confusing as his apprehension about writing her in the first place. “We
had a class together two years ago, did you not contemplate this at the time? Surely, there we would have had an opportunity to
develop a long-term plan, in either case my internship never went through. No surprise, however the less of the even scale is
weighted with socks and stocks. Cheesecake always had the strawberries hun. I’m Lorena Bobbitt to these people. The factory
that used to supply your shoestring salesman is out of oil again asking with that car you don’t own. Are you contemplating stock
options?”
He couldn’t figure out the immediate response but wrote an instant reply. “What? Yes a restricted application that allows
people to watch the stocks I recommend and when they are applied, and I could show prospective clients the way they can
always assess real time results but show the graphs of potential growth so they don’t freak out on a bad market week. I don’t
have any money to pay you upfront but a per client commission might be the only thing provided I can muster some. How bout it?
I know your not from the neighborhood and wondered where you were moving.”
The reply again was instant, “I understand you speak a different lingo. They only have Apple and Cherry pie but Key Lime is
still hats down my personal favorite and that server always lies but it was about a rich boy who never came back and they all
wanted a better opportunity to find a pretty woman but then I’m not a truck driver and the rotten eggs are an empty cardboard box
sitting outside the restaurant. Go wait tables for men who mark time slapping a female rear end is my only prospect. I think a me
complicated design would financially benefit and since I’m already aware everyone in your family is an accountant we should
entertain the ideas of international currency options. That waitress hands out free stolen Pop tarts marking time on the wrong
vending machine. No coffee machine, no taxi, no law. All legal money routes just timing is everything. Finding clients who are
less interested in controlling people is the tricky part. People like to advise the help in this perfect future. But that was how they
knew Mr Ed was still buying shoes. You know the horse? That’s why it is the wrong vending machine. I always liked the blond
better who drives the distribution truck but no tree, no sap. It’s a promising prospect, let’s get together after graduation.”
Yulan sat and realized cherry topping was his own favorite if it were cheese cake, but they were maraschino one time and it
was still Sunday Bloody Sunday every morning. He didn’t know her nor when it was her maraschino Cherry Coke, and the last
time he asked for maraschino they had none, what if he was an Amaretto shot in some random bar? He learned early on bars
waste time and money. He was fishing for a hacker but he already knew exactly which bat they stuck his dad on, and didn’t even
know if she liked baseball. He laid down and tried to remember the first time he met her and couldn’t quite remember exactly
when as he drifted off to sleep.

They had not yet bombed Boston and that action has only the knowledge that buying heroin in Afghanistan when the tea is a
tad bitter results in frantic frenzied selling of stocks as tobacco is illegal but heroin isn’t. Onions and potatoes always share the
same root in linguistics. Often wrong tart de torte inherent to compliment raison the more educated and better economically
placed, aware of the planned predestination with tyranny’s inclusive mystery leaves only the option of abandoning any sense of
equanimity, often misunderstanding the true nature of mankind when desperation is the only thing served with champagne, after
all women are still chattel to make an alliance with one seems questionable but in the end they both upon their first encounter
understood the compliments of intellect that are repetitions of utterance making time with the umbrella stand to a culture who can
say tea in ten different ways and fabriquer 10,000 more umbrellas… and of how many ears errant men in the diners carry away
wasted food marking time for their own perceived salvation? One broken coffee cup being five broken coffee cups but no one had
inventories of broken dishes for comparison.
Women of the street… to isolate one waitress within the mix within this system of corruption is the work of women most often
and not men. The illogical nature of watching another suffer begins with the easiest target and the glorification of building the
surmountable tableau of bad tidings builds the nouveaux feministe to instill the pattern of preparatory installation, yet more
stepping stones around Begonia garden paths with the understanding, now they hold a place with the Gardner that prefers to deal
with her husband. After all, a financially secure husband comfortable in his own doting nature is sure to notice any dip in his own
pocket book, the amusements of his wife only skin deep in the knowledge that whatever target she acquires has no effect on his
own umbrella. It only becomes an issue if the Gardner quits one day and the Gardner never quits and never entertains his wife
but ensures new targets are the eye of vengeful entertainment for no other purpose rather than the shrill of a once proud person
being reduced to a fear hugging drone robbed of vanity and justice for the simple reasoning that his wife feels somehow
empowered by the humiliation of another. Having no moral dilemma with the nature of his spouse the stepping stones might need
some mulch of color to spring color into one’s gate.
That was how the other side lives, then there are the impoverished. Never having considered himself quite without and
enough to live and eat, Yulan Gibbartas reconsidered the assessment after discovering the average salary at a firm was
considered by the standards of the national statistic to be classified as poverty level. It became more apparent when he
discovered teachers made his profession a form of odd job for additional income and that the system was rigged and he was the
equivalent to a pizza delivery man in the large scale of life as those who could readily find him clients or hire him liked his social
character to remain where it was. These things annoyed him as much as the assumptions about his heritage concerning his
given name. People assumed he was from Canada or Bolivia or some other irritating suggestion. His mother and father both
worked and after his mother was laid off from being a secretary she just kept saying things like I just can’t find a suitable position,
or maybe they will make some new offices when someone buys one of those buildings downtown. His dad went to work every
day and said we were lucky your grandfather knew how to save. There must be another way, he looked at the cup of coffee and
Steam Well
understood immediately if he walks to the left or to the right the traffic is always the same. If he returns to get a law degree they
already have the lawyer stack set up thirty years to the future. Just ran plumb out of luck is just the city race that people stand in
the street for begging for any influx of money but it’s never enough. There was one person he found a common stance with,
another subject of objectification in the system. Graduation was coming closer and his muffin bagel stroganoff was also
graduating but the thought of an upstart… he already knew for most was a front to keep several sets of books, that IT gal, he
already knew was always yesterday’s lasagna and this was not 1955. Being broke instilled financial survival as instinct if he ever
wanted his mother to stop worrying he needed a sure thing and there is no sure thing being honest. He felt bad, he knew even
his waitress was being a little too friendly from time to time when strange men came in but he couldn’t figure out why all the
sudden that was so normal for everyone. At some point it became an expected behaviour. But he knew her boyfriend was a
pickpocket, a very good pickpocket. He already knew how money was dishonest and if money was honest those men would
never have a chance with that waitress. He just knew his parents never go out to eat and to think to pay three dollars for a coffee
would be something they would do only if they were on vacation but they never have this mystical thing called vacation. They
cancelled the cable knowing that the shows hired the ones, who from their point, betrayed them all. He was lucky, he felt safe in
his own thoughts. He really was that paranoid that he never have an opinion, but the ketchup top was always dirty and society
didn’t understand that a month ago they never were. He snapped out of his thoughts when some anorexic looking blond walked
in, shoulder length hair straightened, he thought she would have a hair beret to match her dark black frame glasses but she never
did. She said she was a painter Julie Tippit. He had listened to her line before. He smiled and understood why the waitress
smiled and moved the silverware tub underneath the counter where she has been stacking silverware filed paper napkins, Tippit
had an old lesbian friend she hung out with and her fan brush didn’t have any pancake syrup but seemingly he recounted the one
day he had a little paper ring when he ordered a streak to celebrate a good test score and never had one since, she could try the
sugar free if she liked. They were still making bets if it was her or her friend that Asian nurse was marking time on at the
diabetic-commercial hospital for hospice people.
His back end booth became all the sudden seemingly shrunken, a tad bit too crowded. The other server walked in suddenly,
“hey let me help her.” Yulan left his money on the table after catching her eye smiled softly and left not wanting to hear what ever
story the blond has this time, after all no one knew how she kept paying her rent. His waitress, skirt with pockets, was still missing
her apron.

DISPLACEMENT THEORY
Turkey on Christmas unless for an odd-duck-reason beef was on sale then from time-to-time The Christmas nutmeg cinnamon
and ginger would align as aromatic allies mingling with salivating meats and mints comfort benign. Children and parents alike
allowed child-like feelings at least for one day in the year, and if course then all pretend for some people. Yulan loved the food on
Christmas and was annually enjoying an odd coffee that he was allowed this one day of the year when his Jewish grandmother
would visit with various thermos containers and say every-time, “I think I more prefer coffee this morning.”
Oddly, though it were 500 in chorus voice, Yulan’s grandmother would always receive the reply, “Bon Noel!”
An old habit his parents explained to him at a young age, simply explaining he had no aunts, as though this seemed to remedy
any apparent confusion. Have you seen my name? His family’s small home, a place having been remodeled in years past;
originally built fit a large family thinking the same space adequate for two, now only fit one. Perfect for an only child and a double
sale to its previous owner. As a child, he would imagine he could just buy the one next door as an adult before a sad dwelling
vacancy brought the next assortment of individuals and couples moving in and out over they years until finally it became a lease
property, were only occasionally the mail went to the wrong house giving a clue as to who occupied the little sub-lot new only in
name as the new tax definition benefits was advertised time-to-time.
Christmas without his grandmother older than she let on and the noticeable absence of imitation flavors of the imaginary world
created in a mug; a peppery sweet cocoa coffee, what Christmas would taste like. The old way swept away. No more foreign, in
the modern world old customs still reined so that his family still held only little presents as his family’s custom; specialty meats,
vegetables, breads, chocolate, nuts, candies, ciders, pipe smoke and spirits. This year held no music as the advertisements hurt
everyone’s ears. Instead, only traditional games of cards and the odd assortment of game-boards collected over the years.
Yulan’s family always had just a sprig of pine, not a proper tree, a sawed off limb from the local park that the police annually
ignored his father’s petty theft and decorated with old ornaments passed down with little lights used year to year. Cinnamon
sprigs used as a mulch skirt would be picked up and promptly stuck in one’s mouth as quickly as one would enjoy a candy only to
be discarded later. Yulan and his parents never had holiday bad breath though his dad did tend to nip a few too many from the
brandy bottle, but silliness was all that was found and oddly his rare state seemed to delight his mother.
Go, and enjoy the season, as they say as though you were a mind reader. The passed down Nutcracker soldier forever
smiling with gloves like Santa Claus happily crunching every first bite saving one from the dentist with an ill-placed nut. No rocks
in the universal stocking the saying goes and tube socks warning everybody’s feet in place of embers.
The furnace wakes Yulan with its smell oddly placed in the middle of spring the air humid. His dream being opposite of the
waking season where his mind briefly found. He did his best to to appear awake looking alert and saw his dad smiling, “just
staring it to turn it off.” Nothing out of the ordinary, he would do this periodically throughout the year to run the motor or whatever
Christmas Spring Still Slightly Employed
one calls it. “Did I wake you?”
“No. Just day-dreaming while laying down. It’s Saturday what are you doing home?” Fear for just a moment filled him. He
was only competing local applications to jobs in the area, there simply are not enough vacancies, he didn’t want to move far away
from his parents. Where would he go?
“I am going to be employed just part-time for a while they are restructuring. The good news is they are investing but they think
that the shift might need a different man for the new Saturday crowd. So I’m only working half the end week. The good news is
no more restaurant Saturday morning meetings so the kitty allowance goes back into the pool. I did however put in for a different
position and I think that is promising.”
Yulan smiled, ” That’s good, you have been doing the same thing so long a little change will be great.”
“Yeah, change.” His father’s smile grim.
Yulan’s immediate thought was, never he did no harm not quite knowing where the sentiment came from but with the
understanding he already knew others had despite being so socially well-connected. He immediately thought about his dad’s
brother and regretted adhering to his uncle’s advice to never take any other job than the one he was getting a degree for, but his
his uncle dead in a four-way intersection that killed every driver involved; a mistake by the city leaving green lights on every corner
never changing on a remote rural road under dispute about a city boundary coincidentally a lawsuit could never be filed. He never
then thought about an abstract idea at the time, ’peasant insurance’ while abstract then, real now never having a beneficiary
except for his employer. He pushed the thought from his mind as he wondered how expensive his own father was being the
honest man. Paranoia is all he was worried and being paranoid.
“Another position was open and I asked for a transfer so to do some moving of positions is normal. I have many years
experience, far more than those who they have been hiring, my accounts are the most accurately exact. Not everyone can say
the same.”
Yulan knew how to repress the distaste for the side-line project generation that embraces dreams and lives off invisible
non-traceable profit. A society made plenty is always paid handsomely so long as they were on that ’one’ …whatever the hell that
meant, but always at the expense of his own family. What went wrong? Everything, he understood in an epiphany; whoever
paved the road last assigns the chumps to the next assigns middle-aged Americans into some nouveaux culture revolution
creating a predestined sorted career pool. If he ever tried to convince someone that theory he too could kiss any potential job
offer goodbye. An honest man is the least interesting in this modern world of business. Yulan’s slightly unstable thoughts
overwhelmed routine dismissal. He could not help but think to himself, for every optimist that is his family’s strength the next
controller of the financial universe ensures the addition of another adversarial well fed mean dog. Logically his own mind somber,
overwhelmed; there should exist an allied rabid dog as equally mean. Benefit from suffering is diligence in a constant equilibrium
of disproportionately distributed civility.

THE APPLET
According to the most recent studies the human species is considered to be obtaining a new level of controlled domestic
‘translatability’ in the already ingrained pack mentality. The domestic desire to imitate form and ensure continual renewed
confidence has become the system that ensures routine is comfort. Others with a deemed lesser value to the whole of the group
also understands the moves and the lesser gap of information at times is the mere action of reading a laffy taffy candy wrapper.
The rooster crowing is the crow and the wrapper the clothes of the scarecrow in the sewer line of a septic tank that no one ever
heard of, who’s plumber is fixing that. The man that lost his walking stick one morning is the most interesting movement that has
been made in twenty years, but he never had children. Ensuring success is too messy of a business as it boils down to reflect
upon the scenario no one really needs anyone. The game of life is how to screw someone over to ensure Beirut never reads
one’s personal email. The population already having been lied to feeling quite over sure of itself believing the lie but this also
constructs itself by design. They say everyone needs an accountant as a jingle and wouldn’t that be swell because taking a tour
in a hot air balloon is never an option. That is of course Manhattan.

(Romantic Repression a Dance With Denial, Brook.)

Litter on the floor pages of a handwritten letter
Caustic rustic reminiscence etched in ink
Rejected constantly always every day is better
Tell another, slap my cheerful cheek rouge pink
I move my flask though it were the foreign perfume
Found in the place of your wedding ring absence
A bottle color of eggplant replaces dignity in this very room
Mocking me, your mate doth do my future non-existence tense
And yet you are still in my presence
My only love, my harmful nuisance.

For Brook the babble of her utterances became nothing but a changing stream where a different dam was marked in time, but
only for a day. “I could have just said it was twenty miles to the north more-so then it was not,” she mutters but only to some
voyeuristic human trafficker, impossible to prove yet everyone seemingly knew. To know her is to abuse her. Instead, the dam
of twenty miles north marked a different person calling only in an ancient echo in. The perfume bottle was obviously always the
same. Here, her boxes always the same, she looked upon the same potpourri and the handkerchief was always the embroidered
one, the initials slightly different seemingly italic, then after a faded glimpse returning to innocent normal that place that was more
straight. Her late mother’s handkerchief never changed but she had used an older stencil. Only a trick of eye, dismissal of belief
remained constant, yet the subject must surely be different and her family would never know in any case. They are all dead, and
nothing but to know that today is always different and her memory of one hour constantly changes. Impossible to explain, yet
everyone looked the other way. Now she just ignores the phone calls. It has been a long time since she had met a genuine
human. She still understood. All she is, is a random verse of Revelations. Imitation of evil as the ice cream truck drives by
slightly out of tune.