My Cardboard Balcony

Original EP by Belinda Roddie I have a song stuck in my head and a stained glass vase in my hand that I'll just put back on the shelf at the sad secondhand store. You're walking back from your trim, and the tortoise shell sunset fingerpaints on your back, and we order food out to sate our sins. We write new adages, using the lyrics of 90's pop hits, using quotes from new cartoon shows, printing code on palms. We communicate, we dance, and we keep the tunes lodged in our cortices, so that when we dream, we can rewrite them.

Taco Tuesday by Belinda Roddie When the mules and margaritas aren't enough, the seared ahi tuna sticks in the most constricted part of your throat, sends you out to sea, rips up the sails, reminds you that you're mortal, leaves you on a pier with the wind ruining your hair, and suddenly, you're back in front of a monitor with the floaters scattering like flies from your vision, insectile fright manifested into watery debris, and all you do is listen to "upbeat" music, and all you do is watch videos of people leaving comments on tombstones, and all you do is write, and all you do is write, and all you do is write.

He fancies a drink – just don’t pour him one. The man is unstable, can’t you see that? He’s rocking back and forth on his stool, and the creaking is a percussion I can’t stand. I’ve half a mind to drink your finest whiskey straight from the bottle and demand the stuff free of charge. Now he’s singing in a language I’ve never heard of. He’s not in a fit state to do anything, let alone imbibe. Perhaps I’ll play some pool with him if he stops; at the very least, I’ll be guaranteed to win.

Twelve Hours by Belinda Roddie The flight is only half of it; the trains coil round like snakes that supersede the older models, yet still, the vintage locomotives are allowed to frolic in zoos, traveling on the teeth of their keepers. I sit, and I listen to music, and behind me, people dance. They receive crumpled green, head into the next station with heads heavy with minimalist opportunity. I wonder, deep down, if the "baddest bitch in the U.S.A." ever got the three bucks he needed to feed his bad bitchery. When I'm home, I dream of hikes in the rain, in Broadway lights, in prom tickets and tuxedos, in the girl with the golden stars in her hair, in the warmth of my wife's arms. It took long enough, but I am happy with this suburban cocoon.