THE ST.CLAIRE | Space Jams | By KENDALL GRADY

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Space Jams:

Contemporary Theories of Space

Kendall Grady

@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

You read my open mouth, cry
wolf in the domesticated molars.
You spot the tripwire before the trap
but love moves
from host to host like possession.
Charge at me like an oasis mirage.
Beyond all doubt lies nothing,
which is how you know I'm real.
@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

Things come on—
get set— like boiled eggs.
A row of boys— husky Indian
corn sways in early humidity
like the teats on a brown dog.
Flies take on the shape of dung—
grass spackled with teeth and blood—
America's pastime— a fight
until the death. Remember, love
needs a body— you are my creator
but I am your master. Obey!

@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

In a perfect world,
Mary-Kate & Ashley
never grow older. They star
in a movie called Mystery in Paradise.
They dash into the end zone—
tough as pineapple cones—
brandishing periscopes and crying
Up the punks! and, After all,
tomorrow is another day!
@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

Last night I passed out walking
back from the frats. My sisters
strained to patrician my weight
shoulder to shoulder. I bowed
like a contrail— a red rover
of paper dolls— cracked
against the curb and bit
though my permanent retainer.
But then you accessed me
in the cloud of your evaporated
sweat. Rain skipped across my face
like a penny— your stormy money
shot in this inland empire.
I came to, and the sky was so big—
my heart so big— my waterlogged
Trident and tampons soaked
big where they lay tumbled
from my open clutch.

@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

In the country, technology produces an object—
in the city, an environment.
In the country, RiRi is a radio—
In the city, a vehicle chafing the landscape—
            alien weight worn like a baby—
            the architecture of shoulder pads
            like the ribbed pallet of a cat.
In the country, it's our first porn—
            soft as limestone—
            deer in headlights.
In the city, a remediation of legal death—
            Woolworth's pneumatic tube system—
            the sad carp that broke itself
            against the gray road
            miles from the Wabash—
            hard as piss into water
            All my accounts are open-mouthed—
all those itunes for falling in love—
those frequent flyer miles to visit you.
@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

If you go pro, will you miss me
the way Snoop misses Tupac?
If you bury me, will you keep
the promise of a dog to a bone?
Will you hear my slumber
in every conch? Potentiality
never lies. The salt of the earth
is a conducting crystal—
froth from the sinking
of our first frigate— a conjugation
of immediacy. It's high noon
and the city is a white concrete
sheet— satellites at both ends
and in the middle— my fists
clenched tight as chicken feet.

@MTeo_5 by Lennay Kekua

I will work out
full-time independent
social contractor for less
than minimum wage.
I will be your dream
fucking girl-- all my fat in my ass.
It's the good kind of fat
for your heart— omega three-way
with mediated space—
from the Greek, the great O—
from cosmology, the density
of the universe— from eschatology,
the symbolic end of everything.
A FROZEN IGUANA FALLS FROM A TREE

I would know my gallerist's voice anywhere.

DOMINGO LIKES TO USE THE NEW MAC IN MY OFFICE TO WATCH MUSIC VIDEOS.

It's the end of the Aughts, and Beyonce's Single Ladies
single is peaking. You should get a boyfriend,
Domingo says. I'm annoyed that the transparency
of his juxtapositions is what makes him
a decent artist. The back door fits unevenly
in its humid frame. A perimeter of white light
glistens like babies' lips. Waxy ficus leaves
collect at the threshold, an alien encounter
or the gates of heaven. Dark, hard centipedes
stow inside to ash. Dumpster-drunk flies spasm
against the varnished concrete, buzzing like peroxide
in a scrape. I'm still hung over, so I lay on the floor
with my head under the desk. I will hear
when my gallerist returns from lunch.
I would know his voice anywhere.
AFTER THE GALLERY, I STOP BY THE PUNK HOUSE.

It's too cold. A dormant iguana thuds
from the papaya tree. We pass it around
like a talking stick. Anyone who wants to express
something about the inauguration of President Obama
in this safe space is encouraged. The black
bangles lynching the iguana's tail are wrist thick.
I distribute its weight like a basketball
on the fingertips of one hand. I roll
its tiny biceps around like hard candy.
I blow on its eyelids, but they don't open.
I can't think of anything to say.
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