Super Bowl Sunday

by Rosemary Brusnahan & Blair Emsick

I can see only one wall at a time.
I don’t think I can look behind me
Shit, someone’s hungry, cold.
A blanket frozen to root beer, stuck
Unopened FedEx packages run over by speeding trucks
Christmas is only next year away
I weep tears as I eat BLTs watching 1-800 commercials
Somewhere a plant’s forgetting to be watered
Somewhere someone is opening a account
Children are the future, and you know what that means.
The Elderly are pregnant purged into bed pans
Four hands to a wall, plaster and penis.
Something catches fire,
A theater or an extinguisher
Fuck, did you ever see Michael Jackson’s fake chin..?
Nothing that was ever sold at Crossroads Mall
How many people are making love their only friend?
And loneliness their only foe?
Diamonds are a girl’s,
Black to white echoes echoes

Rosemary Brusnahan is a 23 year old inert mass of fluid and gunk. It likes the outdoors. Dogs make it smile usually, as do cats. The dirty laundry on the floor feels like a chore. Which it is. Vegetables at the store appeal to it. It lives with a roommate that encourages getting off its ass. But it brings home candy, so comb see comb saw.

Blair Emsick grew up in Omaha. She is studying English and Journalism at UNO. Her writing typically deals with the precarious balance between existentialism, enlightenment, and binge drinking - three past times she actively indulges in when shes working, studying, and getting her heart broken. Her muses are beer, cigarettes, and Mahalia Jackson. She can also read palms and minds.