September 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Four
Jason Floyd Williams
birthday party.

So my grandmother & father kept
doing this kinda island-hopping
from topic to topic
around us–
“Laurie copped a plea for
twenty years to life for accessory
to murder of her brother Mike.”

“That’s a bit steep, don’t ya think?”

“Well, Michael was stabbed fifty-seven times
and tortured for two days before
being killed.
She left him there
with the drug dealer;
she could’ve called
the police.”


“Myranda left Annie-O with Dave
and now she’s sleeping
in her van.”

“Well, he’s a good guy–
that’s not her type.
She likes the bad boys.”



“Lindsay attacked her aide–
they tried to reduce her
calorie intake from twelve-hundred
to a thousand.”

“What did she do?”

“She clawed the aide’s face–
nothing she’ll need stitches for,
but bad enough– tore her
clothes, and threw some
chairs and a table off
the patio.”

Move on.

“Is Linda still crazy?”

“Yeah, she kept picking up all
the cigarette-butts on the ground
at the last Bike-meet; and kept
saying strange shit
to people.”


They were like Nimitz and Halsey
plowing through Japanese opposition
in the Pacific.

It’s gotta be like that.

Freud said we’re all nuts,
but it’s a matter of degree.

We hang on to what little
we have.