Category Archives: Guy Yasko

Sometimes I feel like Charlie Brown by Guy Yasko

— Strike three!

Some you win, some you lose. Only these days it’s more like “You
lose.” Period.

– How much?
— Eight for the beers and fifty for the bet.

I slide three twenties across the bar.

– See you tomorrow, Chuck.
— Don’t think so, Bill.
— Oh, you know you’ll be here.
— Fuck you, Bill.
— See you tomorrow.

I hate myself.

.

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Death in the Afternoon by Guy Yasko

— Bobby! Bobby! I’m home. You call Liston yet?

– Bobby?

Must be gone. Curtains closed. Sunlight through curtains, like when
you’re sick.

– oh.

No color. White? Blue? Not breathing.

What do you do when someone dies? Call 911? He’s already dead!
Chrissake. Have to call anyway? Bureaucracy of death. Police? They’d
know.

You have a drink, that’s what you do. Mark the occasion. What though?
His stuff? Not me, not now. Not even. Stuff from Sandy: Calvados. What’s
that, Spanish? Good enough.

Got what he wanted — or did he? Spite? Escape? That’s it? Ran away from
me, now life. Fuck him. Me, this what I wanted? Don’t know. No. Not
really. Waste of my life, too. Gone now.

.

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No. 66 West by Guy Yasko

I am accustomed to sheriff’s deputies, Jehovah’s witnesses and
partiers looking for 66 East.

This caller is different:

– Do you mind if I have a look around? My happiest days were in this
apartment. It had such positive energy for me. Didn’t you ever wonder
about this doorknob? I put it on. Don’t you love it?

I let her in. Her voice echoes off bare walls. There is nothing but
apartment, me and her.

.

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Monsoon dialectic by Guy Yasko

I write naked. It is too hot to do otherwise.

Tomorrow will be the same: high skies, relentless sunshine, token
clouds. There is no hope for change, not until the monsoon dialectic
generates its own destruction.

My neighbours take refuge in air-conditioning and ghost stories. I
take cold showers and dream of thunderstorms.

.

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Tainted Love by Guy Yasko

— Would you mind turning that down?

– In a minute. I’m listening.

– 80s pop was all about record company hegemony and falling microchip
prices.

– I don’t care. I like it. Try the broccoli.

– Broccoli, the easy-to-ship vegetable, the logistically-friendly
vegetable. You need something like that when you’re getting rid of local
producers.

– Do you enjoy anything?

– I enjoy you.

– Do you really?

.

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Bluebird by Guy Yasko

I wake to the rain on metal roof. I want coffee and breakfast, but i’m
not ready to be wet, not yet. I move up to the driver’s seat. Why not? I
check the mirrors. There’s nothing to see; too many raindrops, too many
blackberry bushes.

Dexter’s books are on the dash, some half-open, spine-up. I peek. The
feeling of excitement disappears in the teachings of Don Juan. I fall
asleep.

When i look up there is a woman at the door. She doesn’t knock. I crank
open the doors. Rain drips between us.

– I was looking for Dexter.

– Not here. Check his place?

– Not there either.

– Well, come in out of the rain at least.

.

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Dans la lune by Guy Yasko

I

She is drawing the hermit from Led Zepplin IV in the margin of her
dictée. The hermit’s lantern illuminates a forest of misplaced and
forgotten accents.

I stare at her legs. Her toe rise and fall with her pulse. I look at
the clock on the wall and count. Fourteen times four is 56.

Surprisingly low.

II

Paris Match:

Mastroianni et Deneuve. Depardieu et Deneuve. Bardot et Deneuve. Une
semaine avec Deneuve.

Deneuve, Deneuve…

III

All details of my environment are gone. All i know is that i am warm.

A voice calls my name:

– Etienne, Etienne.

Each syllable seems louder.

– Etienne, s’il vous plaît, répondez à la question.

– Umm…Je ne sais pas, Madame.

.

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