thrift shop princesses

Zoë Fluck and Chloe Zuck

were always partying sober,

tanning in the summer

but never getting their makeup

to look good.

When Zoë had a breakdown

during an autumnal equinox,

(she went to bed and just stayed

there for a couple weeks),

Chloe was regularly seen

Novocaine-faced,

lounging in big baggy pants and

wearing colored contacts that felt

like little metal Frisbees.

The day Zoë finally got Chloe

on the phone,

their conversation was clearly

from the unconscious.

“I had a dream,” Zoë said.

“Oh, God,” Chloe said.

“I hate it when people retell their dreams.”

“No, you’ll appreciate this one.

"I was wearing big white fur pants and

my father kept telling me

I was sexually ambiguous…”

“Well,” Chloe said.

“I read a book that said if we sleep

in a certain direction facing the moon,

it helps us to achieve amazing new

depth or breadth or some bullshit…”

It was April before Zoë and Chloe

were back to their usual hooliganism,

walking around in oversized corduroy overcoats,

funky hats, really tight flannel pants, and

taking potshots at Orange County.

Reviews

[Philip Gaber]

Thanks, Vol, I appreciate your review. Thanks and be well!

[Vol]

Philip,
I love narrative poetry. I love the tiny novels they are, five hundred pages whittled to ten or fifteen lines so when you all away, the weight of gold in your arms is not diminished. Love these girls you've created and their story.
Vol