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      December 3, 2010Lip Gloss, BelgiumJim Daniels

      The phone company sent me six bills, postage 42 cents
      each, to tell me I owed 26 cents. Then they sent

      a bill saying I owed $6.26. When I called to object,
      I was phone-menued to a new dial tone.

      I borrow my neighbors’ dog for runs in the park
      just to be able to hand back the leash and walk away.

      The moon is missing a smudge tonight.
      My daughter pulls on my hair to make sure

      I’m not a witch. She cried when I beat her
      at ping-pong. The computer’s red thing

      underlined it—I’m supposed to capitalize
      Ping-Pong. Red Thing wants to be capitalized too.

      A train runs under my chair and crashes into my foot.
      I wish I’d grown up in Ping Pong, Wisconsin.

      Or Hyphen, Missouri. My daughter’s been studying
      the phrases of the moon (Red Thing didn’t catch that one!)—

      My favorite is Doth Hither! My hair’s not falling out,
      just stiffening white. I tried to keep the game close,

      but that made it worse. I would’ve happily lost.
      The soul is the size of a ping pong ball with the consistency

      of jello (Jell-O?). It’s lit by a wick formed with the letters
      of the first lie. The world says I owe it 26 cents.

      To send it c/o Red Thing, AL. Maybe Red Thing
      should just underline lies. I was born before

      Lip Gloss was invented. I used to use an ink eraser
      manufactured in Oxymoron, New Jersey—I believe

      the soul of the nun who was my sixth grade teacher
      was made of that exact same material. My daughter

      is asleep now. Someone is calling a dog in, but the dog
      isn’t coming. Maybe the soul is a place where someone

      is calling for us. No matter what we say, the voice
      keeps calling—it could be dinner time or bath time.

      We’ll never know. Or maybe when we die, and our bodies
      are taken to Lip Gloss, Belgium, we find out.

      Or else, we meet some boring asshole who keeps insisting
      we call it table tennis. When the moon’s last dark smudge

      becomes light, like a ping pong ball rising off the table
      toward the basement’s spiky rafters, nearly anything could happen.

      from #33 - Summer 2010