Can You Believe A Big Gulp Is $1.79 Now?
I used to live in a Big Gulp cup
I had a little bed in there that floated
on top of the Diet Coke, tied an
ashtray to it so it wouldn’t float away
I’d watch TV in my styrofoam house
lying there idly dipping my toes into soda
little plumes of cigarette smoke curled
out of the red straw like a chimney
I don’t remember where I got my meals
It’s all fuzzy, a floaty haze on sedated
cola waves, I’d row my mattress in
circles all day, that’s all I know for certain
One day someone started fucking with
the straw, swirling it around, they knocked
me into the Diet Coke and put their finger on
the end of the straw and sucked me out
Red Dream
Last night I dreamed that my skin was made of wax
my teeth were cochineal bugs that crunched and
stained my tongue sickly red, I drooled as I slurred.
Long slimy strands of crimson slobber dripped down
my chin my neck and tie-dyeing my white collar
I went about my dreamday unawares smiling my gory
scarab smile at clerks bus drivers coworkers, you
all; brows furrowed; asked me if I was okay the heat of
my embarrassment pitting my wax cheeks, I don’t know
why they asked me and nobody would clue me in
It was difficult to talk with beetly teeth falling away as I
rolled over my order at the bar; negroni; red mouth gets
redder, dribbling onto my crime-scene blouse. Wax doesn’t
know wetness, skin colors vermillion as I feebly chat with
a glassy-eyed man who doesn’t speak much English
Cooling hand touches my shoulder and says “take this:
chew if you can; spit,” she is my age maybe younger
corners of grey green eyes spell pardon, knotted finger
pulls a poultice from her pocketbook, verdant bundle
bitter as I gnash my bug teeth-stubs into it, pulping
I spit red-brown onto the barroom floor, grind my heel
into my saliva, draw my name with my toe in sanguine
spit-ink and I can feel myself hardening as I gnaw and
pestle. My paraffin skin crusting over with each inhale
I am shellac.
Maid Marian
When you shot that apple off my head
Weren’t you aiming lower?
Ursula Carroll is a writer and Swedish translator in St. Louis. Her work has appeared or will appear in Had, Michigan City Review of Books, Washington Square Review, Burial, and other cool places. She spends most of her time taking pictures of vanity license plates and thinking up knuckle tattoos.
Dodo Eraser 
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