Some pics from the Mipoesias Stain Bar reading, which I will be visiting again in the future, even if just to listen, since I had such a great time, and the audience was very nice, even though the MC made fun of my name, and made several "sandwich" remarks.


(Amy King)


(Jen Tynes)


(Jennifer Firestone -- isn't that a cool last name?)

Who's this silly red ghost?



Go to my flickr to see the larger versions.

Go gets my book! Go gets it now. It is funny and sad and a little bit pretty, just like me.



Go now, quick!

(go to my reading)

Excerpted from a longer poem, The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse

Pale Horse

In my hospital bed in the living room,
I am a shut-off room with its own weather.

My sweating son sometimes appears in the distance,
baby’s breath in his fist,
like I’m his first date and he’s terrified
I’ll try to kiss him under the apple tree.

I don’t sleep anymore,
but I dream, my eyes open.
I dream I’m predicting my daughter’s future
and expressing myself through the mouth
of a white horse
with very large teeth.
The horse shits daisies and lilies,
they pile up on the couch and window sill.

My daughter begs the doctor to
increase the morphine in my drip.

There’s a fence
of poesies around my bed: violets,
white tulips, baby’s breath.
They hope to bury me in flowers.

My lavender night gown stinks of roses,
my hands swim free and float around the room,
touching petals, when no one’s watching.

The children whisper about me upstairs.
I use my new eyes to see them through
the ceiling.

When my horse is not chewing
on the potted plants he lets me lean on him,
leads me into the kitchen. I do things
there at night, excellent meals
I put together and hide.

They’ve picked out a flowered
urn for my ashes.
I have other plans.


(go to my reading)

Come my reading on Friday. Please. Don't make me beg. It's undignified.

7PM on Friday, April 28th @ Stain Bar in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Jen Tynes (http://www.mipoesias.com/Shorts/tynes_jen.html)

Christine Hamm (http://www.mipoesias.com/Poetry/hamm_christine.html)

Jennifer Firestone (http://www.mipoesias.com/Poetry/firestone_jennifer.html)

stain
766 grand street
brooklyn, ny 11211
(L to Grand, 1 block west)
718/387-7840
http://www.stainbar.com/
STAIN is a unique arts lounge dedicated to local products and talent.
_________________

Also, find me on my space at http://www.myspace.com/christinehamm

Diary of a Playboy Bunny

Nobody likes me
because I’m not a social person

I am unable to decode certain social cues
such as how to respond when a person
picks his nose and then wipes it in a box
and ties the box with a bit of red
cord and hands it to me with a shy grin.

I am frequently unable to distinguish
between the need for slapping or smiling.
There are times when a professor is lecturing
at his podium about Herodotus and I feel a need
to relieve myself. I have been told that
it is inappropriate to piss in the aisles,
so instead I go and sit up in the front row, let
the drops fall where they may.

I am also in a quandary about the right time
to lift my skirt and offer my genitals.
Often in a staff meeting
it seems like the right thing to do
and it does shorten the meeting considerably,
since everyone is in a hurry to start fucking me.

I often have difficulty reading people’s faces,
as when a cop stops me when I’m crossing the
street; I can’t tell, when I look into his eyes,
if he wants to beat me with his baton or give
me a hug.

I read once that everyone could use a hug,
so I started breaking into people’s homes
at night to hug them. One man had a baseball
bat by his window. That’s how I
ended up here, asking for more
facial repair.

The Flowers That You Left

Dear Heart,

Let the apples be made of felt, and let the
ceiling drop down upon the floor so we
dance upside down. Your flowers will
remain. I feed them aspirin so they will
live a long time. I feed them vitamin C
and B12 and olive oil for good luck.

But they curl and hiss at me with
their desert-colored mouths. Their petals
fall and writhe like worms. They look like
upside down hearts, like left-over valentines.
They stand in front of a mirror, the better
to multiply, the better to watch.

In the bedroom, I catch a whiff of them,
part swamp, part dimestore perfume. I
build them an altar, offer them meat.
They are tiny hateful gods, nonetheless.
Their pink is a tissue made of lies.

Everyday there seems to be more. In
my dreams, they are angels with swords,
hacking off my hair. At times, I would
like to gather them in my fist, but they
bite.

I hide all the envelopes. Who knows
what messages they send, what they
report to you?

I am going to call a man to remove them.
Or, failing that, I am moving to another state.

Thanks again for the bouquet.

Sincerely,

Yrs.

Drawing Water to the Eye
some text from Simple Sketching in Line, 1933

Let us commence with an eye.
This is too difficult, you say.
Well, let us look a little closer
and try to simplify.

First, let us tackle the eyes of birds,
which close underwater.
Here is evolution.
If we draw beautiful eyes,
you will at once appreciate
the water, now returning in a teaspoon.

The country walker draws water as no
other traveler. It is important to carry
a bucket as well as a pencil.
If it rains, you may place the bucket
over your head. Absurd! you may say.
Yes,

A traveler in Spain was offered a ticket
for a bull-fight. If he had drawn himself
drinking with the bull, he might have
obtained his cup of water.

You are not necessarily an expert
at this yet. Spilling, also, is easily done.
A teary eye may be hid by a bucket. A traveler
must always check for tears under his
sketch pad, starting out, or he may
get a pencil in the eye.

my great great great

grandmother’s ghost, half-German botanist
half-Scottish horse trader
smells like chalk and salt water

moves like a phosphorescent jellyfish
above the trees
petticoats blazing

has a spider on her left shoulder
that catches robins, stings the feet
of unfaithful fathers

she was mother to 13 children
three who lived to come to America
and scrabble through the garbage
for spoiled onions and cabbage
to feed their daughters

who crouched in abandoned
rooms dug into the earth

shamed by their lack of shoes
the holes in their skirts
the stench that soap made of sand
couldn’t clean away

they gave birth in
dirt-floored shacks in Colorado,
Oklahoma, and had daughters

some who threw themselves
under the wheels of pick-up trucks

some who had hooves for feet
and could fly

some who drove those pick-up trucks
away into the horizon our grandmother
cracked open with her teeth

Hey! If you came here from The Goodnight Show, the poem featured there is listed below on April 14th.

Michelle B. chose Memoir of an Unrepentant Thief to feature on the show. Yay! I'm very flattered.

Where’s Spiderman
When You Need Him?


I hate washing the dishes
as soon as I finish my food
it turns into something filthy
on the plate

I’ll run water in the sink
over the forks, knives, cups
sometimes I make the water
very hot to sterilize
but that’s my limit

I’m not going to touch anything
with my hands

these roaches move
like little black buttons
Isn’t anyone going to
do anything?

A Good Half Hour in the Garden

the singing of the invisible
known only by deliberate
dark flicks in the shadows
of the spiked leaves sounds
like children speaking very
rapidly and suddenly

she has never seen these tiny birds before
they move oddly
swinging up and down in the air
before landing, she is new
to this place, their song unfamiliar

the noise of the birds
constantly changes,
falling and rising as she enters
the space between two bushes
she thinks perhaps they watch,
and are following her

19.


Tristessa

you were the first and last girl
whose hand I held without feeling panic
you were allergic to peanuts
you practiced fainting in the safety
of your room, onto the small
bed your mother made every morning

you hated her for adopting you and
for letting you find out about it
your real mother was a whore
( I wasn’t sure what that was)
you said it enough times,
chin jutted, that I believed it

you were a lush snow white child
but you hated your rounded calves
and cheeks, your hair so straight
and dark, bangs cut like a severe
horizon across your brow, your
dress always something navy
the skirt a little too long
vaguely nunnish, if nuns
were allowed to worship
their own inadequacy

we gave each other horse names
and galloped around the edges
of the soccer field during recess
I held strands of your long soft pelt
behind you as if they were reins
we clucked to each other when
we wanted to move, the clicking
of the tongue riders use along with
their heels, a sound like stuttering
cicadas, when the boys hit you and
made you fall down I hit them back

you were twelve and you used pills,
not very many, the first time you tried
to unravel yourself

An early 18. Stop bothering me, you with the constant higgling pressure.

You Practice Your Leaving

this photo is at the bottom of my purse
in an envelope I stole from work:

your shirt off, hunched forward on the couch
skin brown as Tennessee floodwaters
black tufts of hair like random thumbprints
here and here

you hold the cat up to one side
next to your face, she dangles limply
her fur swirled like it’s been in someone’s mouth
she looks absently down at the floor

you turn your head in the opposite direction
pretend to smile, your brow furrowed
your eyes elsewhere

the background’s a green domestic jumble
pillows and paintings, a broken chair propped
up on library books, a boot or two

and I know beyond the edge of this photo
lie your dark furred shins
still shining with precise scars
like flesh staples from your surgery

from that time you wrecked yourself
on your motorcycle
and forgot all our names, for a while

17, already?

Events Occurring in a Car

I lean the bucket seat back
so you can climb on top of me
you groan as if it hurts you
I’m so wet I soak through my jeans

my father puts his hand between my thighs
I push it away    he puts it back and
laughs   my mother hisses from
the back seat

you aren’t paying attention to me so I 
swerve a little more on the steep bend outside
the ranch   the car flips end over end
down the hillside     you aren’t wearing
a seatbelt but you brace yourself
with your fists on the ceiling

I turn to wave at you as I cross the 
intersection and see you going the opposite
direction    you ignore me and I crash into
a parked car

I am driving my brother to swim practice
I tell him to stay in the back seat he tries
to crawl into the front   I jam on the brakes
he slams forward and breaks off the review
mirror with his forehead     I tell him he is an
idiot

my mother is driving me home after school
she tells me I must attend an awards
ceremony to get my award     I say I’m 
embarrassed and I don’t want it     she stops
the car and throws me out

I am in the backseat     my father is driving
down a winding road   slope on one side
cliff and sea on the other    I can’t breathe
everybody is watching me  I scream  slow 
down slow down    my father tells me it is 
alright and keeps on    my brother holds my hand  
I pull away to clutch the door

Number 16

Secret Honey

my mother used to sew my clothes
misshapen skirts, shirts with too many
armholes, bathing suits that dissolved in
water and I loved every second of the
making, the hum click slower and faster
of the machine, the needle a big fish
feeding from the bottom
of my mother’s hand, the tiny light
like a glass eye hovering over her fingers

but my favorite part was the beginning
when my mother unfolded the transparent
human-colored paper, removed my shirt
so she could wrap the paper around me
mark space with a pencil
the pattern creaked like a ship resting in port
I held my breath the hair on my arms rising
I was so happy to feel
her hands on me

the woman who tucked herself into the dark
corners of rooms and slept or read
invisible when you called her name
or fell or fainted

my skin as sensitive as the gap
from a missing tooth
I knew if I stirred or sighed
she would remember I was there,
disappear, again

Almost late.

#15

Memories -- A Private Selection

that day at the beach when you hurt your foot

the tiny sink in the crowded bathroom

the odd-smelling juncture where the dresser
and floor meet, left side

the place where the underside of the mattress is torn

December 15th, 1972

the second squirrel I hit with my car

stuffing your fingers in my mouth

when I was wearing the short dress
made out of flag material

the smeared place where I drew with off-pink lipstick
on the flocked wallpaper

my brother in the backseat,
staring out the window at nothing

the bed of a yellow pick-up truck, night time

tucking your head under my chin

clock gears hidden under the sofa cushions

sunburnt square of skin between my shoulders

orange juice, airport kiosk

the movie with the man who turned into a wolf
and wept

Turning 14 today

Memoir of an Unrepentant Thief

if you were to shake my tiny sticky hand
you’d see a thin girl
with a rainbow-striped dress she’s outgrown
yellowish hair matted to one side of her head

since my mother is busy reading her romances
I roam the streets and backyards with my own bare feet
when I find an unlocked neighbor’s house
I head straight to their kitchen
I love the smell of other people’s houses
they are so large and shiny and their
refrigerators are always full of things
good to eat like butter and milk
I love to scoop the butter from a stick
with my thumb and lick it off
sometimes also they have apples and cats
which are fun in their own way
(if they let me touch them)
I go into the living room and sit cross legged
in front of the TV and watch Sesame Street
until someone comes home to find me

Lucky 13

people: a survey

some people are led around on a leash, some people start small fires and wipe their fingerprints from the doorknob, some people chew their hand off to get out of a bear trap, some people lean so close to the stove their hair catches fire, some people shit in the public pool, some people refuse to get out of bed for a year, some people leave the Porsche running in the parking lot while they go for a beer, some people carry a ton of change in their pockets, some people have no pockets, some people are born with claws, some people are born with two left feet, some people are born with no heart and soon die, some people are born with no skin and live a long time but in agony, some people prefer blondes, some people prefer frozen shrimp, some people spank their children with an open palm, some people kiss their children with a closed mouth, some people sell their children for ten bucks, some people live in constant fear, some people live in Newark

Number 12 is a bit of an experiment.

I did an e.e. cummings poem. It was interesting. I suppose it might be considered a parody, or an homage, depending...



________________

In other news, my book, The Salt Daughter, is finally for sale on Amazon. Go buy it! Or, at least review it! or rate it! or something!

11.


Q & A About My Depression

Let’s say there’s a night sky with stars in it, is that My Depression?

No, My Depression has no stars, but sometimes you can see My Depression at night just before it rains, when the clouds are low and bellowing and there’s nothing but an opaque, grayish, limp dark: that’s My Depression.

Is a man with a gun and a hat My Depression?

No, not unless the man is slumped in a hard chair, too tired to take off his hat, and is staring at the gun on a table, not touching it.

Is an empty room My Depression?

Perhaps, if the shutters are pulled, the curtains drawn and it’s very hot inside, so hot that you have to sit down and pant like a dog. If it’s My Depression, the floor will be uneven and filthy, and the walls will have squares of light color where paintings of flowers and elephants used to hang.

Does My Depression ever taste of lemon?

Sometimes My Depression seeps in like boiling water through an Orange Pekoe tea bag. It is a bitter, dark tea, and often you can’t see the bottom of the cup for the black swirls of it. If someone were to squeeze me very hard over the cup at that moment, then yes, maybe, My Depression would taste faintly of lemon.

Number 10 (with a whimper)

Something’s the Matter with Charlotte

This is the part
in the fairytale where

our heroine is out
in the garden

digging through
the roots of the petunias

and wisely ignoring
the words of the

sparking green fairies
as they whiz by

her ears and scheme.

How to Make a Person (tail and background optional)

you have to remember
every head is an egg

every body is just eight eggs
or maybe 7
in the case of a child
4 or 3

it helps to draw a dotted line
down the middle of everything

the eyes are two half moons
floating midway up the face
and for the nose you can use
a sideways “S” below the eyes

the face should be located on the top egg
although you might prefer, for example,
to have a mouth that goes directly to your stomach
or eyes you can hide under your shirt
so that no one can see you watching

part way down the body on the 4th egg
you might want to put a dot for the belly button
that is the place we all start
but for drawings it is best to leave it for step 2 or 3

you can add the genitals if you wish
which are signified by short vertical
lines but they are generally covered up
by clothes so matter not at all

some may want a woman in which case
the breasts are two empty bowls a distance
of two finger spans above the belly button

as stated above the background is optional
but it is important to keep in mind there
is no person without a place and your person
may despair without the sound of a distant
train or perhaps some starling on a telephone wire

some artists recommend adding the hair
last but I prefer to add windows
as a finishing touch, as everyone
eventually needs a way to see in or out

The Weight of the World

my mother would be the queen of my body
instructing each organ to hum
in harmony with her baroque melody

the doctors tell her I am underweight
a word I confuse with underwear and blush
I see the smile she hides behind her soft hand,
proud of her soldiers: the chocolate laxative,
the prune juice, bananas, the enema bulb like a clown’s nose
the suppositories that glisten like worms

after lunch my mother takes
my hand and leads me to the toilet
then stands by the door
she says try for me, Christine, try

she keeps a scale under my bed
weighs me each night
the jolt and click of it
when I jump on thrills me
the way the numbers shift and flow like a river
at four I am 30 pounds
and my teddy bear is 2

but in the morning before she gets up
I have the lucky charms and milk to myself
I pluck out the soggy hearts
and moons from the bowl
line them up on a paper napkin for later

the end is my favorite part
the milk translucent at the edges
reminds me of white feathers
pastel, sweet
with arms like putty-colored pipe cleaners
I tip the bowl to my chin and
drink it all down

Number 7!!

Back with fist raised, devil sign rocking!

Sometimes we have to be creative. it's true.

A Brief History of Poison

Sometimes we have to be creative. With your silk umbrella,
whisk egg yokes, rum, Amaretto and ground glass over a hot
water bath (or double boiler) until thick and ribbony.

This mixture when finished is called Sarah.
Cool Sarah over icy children’s hands. Little Melissa is not
as pretty, but just as tasty. If you have an astronomer, make
him do a handstand and place the bowl on the bottom of his boots.

Whisk cooled mercury and mascarpone cheese together until well
incorporated and smooth. DO NOT overmix or the mascarpone will
break into bubbles and rise to the ceiling. Jezebel draws the coffee
reduction sauce from her breasts. Sarah is not as pretty, but just as tasty.

Place a layer of crinolines, flat side down, on the bottom of the pan,
leaving a 1 inch gap between the sides and the fabric. Barbara plucks
chocolate cream from her bustle. Christine is not as pretty, but just as
tasty. Pipe a layer of cream on top of the china horses and smooth
with a spatula. Spoon Sarah over that. Allow to chill overnight in a
chemist’s bathtub.

To unmold, remove your paper collar. Take off your filthy linen
gloves. Pluck out your eyebrows and replace with winged serpents.
Sometimes we have to be creative. Top with lead shavings and serve.
You can spoon serve from your flowered hat. Not as pretty, but just as tasty.

____________

Apologies to the actual book called, A Brief History of Poison.

Full disclosure: I was so busy today I didn't finish the one I was writing. So, I used a draft from one I started two days ago.

I'm feeling very eh about this one.

Raveling

Each day is a shoe lost under the bed.
Each day is a half-eaten cheeseburger.
Each day is a scratched out word.
Each day is a dislocated shoulder.
Each day is a missed taxi.
Each day is a broken watch.
Each day is an accident waiting to happen.

Each night is a shoe found under the sink.
Each night is a fully consumed rump roast.
Each night is a brand new word.
Each night is a smoothly lotioned hip.
Each night is a walk under full trees.
Each night is a minute stretched endlessly.
Each night is a an accident avoided.
____

Anyway, poetry vs. comedy was so funny! and I really enjoyed it. And I managed to freak out the sex columnist for the village voice! It doesn't get any better than that!

Don't Forget!

Tonight!

April 6, 8PM
Cheryl B. Presents:
The Poetry Vs Comedy Variety Show
PVC (Poetry Vs Comedy) is neither an ordinary poetry slam nor a stand-up comedy
show. The Poetry Vs Comedy Variety Show is a battle of wits and rhymes where the
stanzas and the stand-up collide.

Emcee: Carolyn Castiglia (Caroline's)

Poets:
Claudia Alick (HBO's Def Poetry Jam)
Christine Hamm (Author, The Animal Husband, Dancing Girl Press)
Andy Horwitz (WYSIWYG Talent Show)

Comedians:
Dan Allen (Comedy Central's Premium Blend)
Kelli Dunham (Penn and Teller's Bullshit)
Lianne Stokes (Brutal Honesty)

Musical Guest: Adira Amram (Chicks and Giggles)

Galapagos Arts Space
70 N. 6th St.
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
L Train to Bedford Ave.

this is very much a rought draft.

The Magic Resume
.
will not only get you a job
it will break your boss’s heart
make him hide under his desk
small, moist and quivering,
.
it will slyly suggest that he suck
his thumb during a power point presentation
.
when he holds it up to the florescent light
it will flare into pink and blue flames
which do not consume it

when his office door is closed it becomes a mirror

on a darkened desk it is a square hole
to the night sky on the other side of the world

once he slides it out of the envelope it adheres to his hands
slick roots slither from the edges of the matt linen paper

wind their way down into the stem of his wrists
break off into petal-shaped bits inside his blood stream

lodge in his heart, his brain
until he is saturated with the invisible ink
of your job mystery

the fact you can type with your tongue

the position at the front desk of a toenail factory
you held for five years

your experience as a receptionist for a one-legged hitman
in a large, pine-scented office with a plush carmine carpet

the year you stood outside at a payphone and answered it
for mininmum wage

the swimming skills you honed at summer camp
the certificate in chicken care

that time in the second grade when your best friend
peed her pants
and you told the teacher it was you

This is a rewrite of yesterday's. I just workshopped it and came up with some new ideas:

A Few Facts About Queens
.
A Queen Doesn’t Know How to Handle Herself
.
the bile in Queen Elizabeth's veins made her
shriek all the afternoons
the doctors who were barbers on their days off
prescribed leeches for the boiling of her blood
seeing how she would do anything to get rid of it
including flying from the roof of the cathedral
and walking along the bottom of the river
stones sewn into her hems
.
A Queen Is Often Contagious
.
the merchants found Queen Isabel’s teeth and hair useful
all parts could be sold and re-used
except her bones which chattered like sparrows
and her fat which when made into an ointment
caused flower-shaped sores
.
A Queen Gets Lost in Her Dreams
.
the priests discovered they could do
nothing with Queen Margaret
hanging or burning only made her more morose and mystical
until the villages in Wales dreaded her visits
as she would nod into a dream and then shout
predictions about men the color of seals
emerging from the sea to steal their pork
.
A Queen’s Wrists are too Small to Carry a Sword
.
an army of short men led by Queen Mary marched over Europe
eventually the Queen was distracted as Queens often are
by a strange set of velvet skirts in the shop window
when her back was turned she was set upon by crows
who lifted her far into the sun until she became
a lacey star of ashes
her blood boiled away she finally felt peace

Number 4. Okay, it's getting like drawing blood, or having teeth pulled... when does April end again?

Definition of a Tree
.
when climbed, gives a view
of other trees, houses, the street
next door, and the next
.
is not pleasant to lick but
feels good on your palms
.
leaves light green near the stem
yellow near the edges
like glass held to light
shaped like spear heads
not good to eat
.
branches the size of your waist
precarious for balancing
beetles crawl up your shorts
.
leaf cluster at the end of
branches make good
whips for a younger brother
.
bark gets in your hair, knots it
when you shimmy up the trunk
.
the canopy sways when you get to the top
rocks back and forth like a rowboat
mothers scream when they see you
up high
.
in June the pollen floats into your eyes
coats your skin
you can make clouds
when you shake the tree
bring down shards of brown
.
you might be Tarzan

This one was more of a struggle, but I wrote a couple on Sunday, so maybe I'll use them as back up later, if needed.

Comments welcome!

A Few Facts About Queens
.
A Queen Doesn’t Know How to Handle Herself
.
something about Queen Elizabeth wouldn’t sit still
the doctors who were barbers on their days off
prescribed leeches for the boiling of her blood
seeing how she would do anything to get rid of it
including flying from the roof of the cathedral
and walking along the bottom of the river
stones sewn into her hems
.
A Queen Is Often Contagious
.
the merchants found Queen Isabel’s teeth and hair useful
all parts could be sold and re-used except her bones
which chattered like sparrows and her fat
which when made into an ointment caused
the user to break out in flower-shaped sores
.
A Queen Gets Lost in Her Dreams
.
the astronomers discovered
all they could do with Queen Margaret was herd her
into a pen and make her pretend she was a horse
hanging or burning only made her more morose and mystical
until whole villages in Wales dreaded her visits
the way she would silently weep her silk skirts
up over her face how she would nod into a dream
and then shout predictions about men the color of seals
emerging from the sea to steal their pork
.
A Queen’s Wrists are too Small to Carry a Sword
.
an army of short men led by Queen Mary marched over Europe
eventually the Queen was distracted as Queens often are
by a strange set of velvet skirts in the shop window
when her back was turned she was set upon by crows
who lifted her far into the sun until she became
a lacey star of ashes
her blood boiled away she finally felt peace

insanely easy to write. I bet number 3 will be harder.

The Call
.
every morning at 8 I get a phone call
sometimes it’s 8:07, sometimes 8:10
.
it’s the same man’s voice, an urgent
message, telling me I need to return
.
the call if I care about things, people
cars, and the state of taxes, there’s
.
something I need to know, the recording
says again and again, this has been going
.
on for over a year, Saturday, Sunday
the same call, the same voice it always
.
cuts off before he gives me the number
when I pick up the recording just stops
.
and then there’s the disconnecting
click, my husband rolls over, half
.
in a dream, and says, yes, you are
pregnant, and I say, no, honey,
.
go back to sleep now

More photos from Santa Fe I played around with. How exciting! OMFG!!

My first national poetry writing whatever-- I'm thinking of reading it on Thursday for my performance. Does it sound funny?

Shopping Carts
.
Shopping cart of shadows. Shopping cart of chocolate, gold lined. Shopping cart of lost prosthetic limbs. Experimental shopping cart in the birthing room. Shopping cart with two people in it, speeding down a hill. Shopping cart in the college library. Shopping cart, upside down, at the bottom of a pond. Shopping cart in my backyard, holding an over-sized, wet, pink, teddy bear. Shopping cart for target practice, throwing stones, field next to the railroad tracks. Shopping cart with ten toddlers inside, next to the side of the road. Collie chained to a shopping cart.
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Two people having sex in a shopping cart, probably not worth the effort. The silence of shopping carts. The placid nature of shopping carts. Shopping cart, two feet away, staring at you. Shopping cart full of meat in your living room. Vintage shopping cart, broken wheel, side of the gas station . The unfelt pain of shopping carts. Shopping cart with colored ribbons, patriotic shopping cart. Shopping cart of shame. Shopping cart of the poorly integrated ego. Shopping cart with no brakes. Shopping cart of spoiled vanilla pudding.
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Shopping cart de amor.