Adam Fieled




from American Deadness

New York City Serenade

She stood on the roof of a tall building.

It was a cold night, she was bundled in

a leather coat over two sweaters. She

looked out over Central Park, and, to

her right, the Upper West Side. Here’s

the deal, she told herself: if I jump, I’ll

go after him as soon as I hit. It’ll take

me three months to hit, by which time

I’ll have the whole thing planned. I was

in bed as I heard her thinking this. My

brain was Swiss cheese. I was on pills.

Out Here in Albany

I never take my brains to work. My

cubicle is like all the others. I wait

each day for the blonde with the big

bust to come peer over my shoulder

at my Facebook page. We have a

mutual acquaintance. She is sizing

him up to possibly have an affair

with. Why should she, or anyone,

care about me?

         Oh, these Albany

nights. You can see glitter like in

Paris anywhere. My wife is also

sizing up contenders. I see her

doing it at Ruby Tuesday’s. As

for me, I’m off the market. It’s

a nice, adult feeling. Underneath,

I do care about me. And Albany

death wounds like no other, with

lethargy; scum of the heart of

America. America: a cubicle.

That’s my America: just blue.

American Deadness

First things first: she can’t hook up. Or, it

isn’t just that she can’t hook up; her body

is useful to her only as a kind of blade, to

cut through tender surfaces around her. If

you see her in South Philly (spring midnight,

let’s say), she will be with a guy set in place

to produce an appearance. Don’t buy it.

She has a station wagon her parents bought

her. She’d rather go without heat than gas.

If she jingles her keys in your face, it’s to

tell you one thing: you are my underling.

I couldn’t care less anymore. Broad Street

is full of these blades. They nurture their

own dull obsolescence with every hesitant

denial. As for Dana, I heard she’s now in

the process of entering a drug ring. They

all think it’ll be an easy hook up for them:

an airheaded blonde on her back in five

minutes. I know otherwise. She’s had me

on my back for three years. But my surface

isn’t so tender anymore. I want to last. 

She Don’t Like, She Don’t Like, She Don’t Like

This isn’t Stevie Nicks: she’s doesn’t blow

blow up her ass. She just sits up all night

with the TV on, razors & mirrors there.

She claimed to me she can communicate

with alien beings through TV images: that

extra terrestrials use colors, forms to come

through, bequeath eternal wisdom upon her,

like this: the universe is a harsh place for

the human race. We are beset by forces, rigs,

all things beyond our control. Her rig keeps

pushing her down into total disbelief in every

thing. E.T. did happen in Los Angeles, after

all. If you can see stars from the Hills, she can’t.

You can’t be one and see one at the same time.

How shall I say this: you haven’t lived until you’ve

watched TV the way she does. It beats everything.

It makes the universe livable. And when the sun

comes up, if you want to die, tough shit, jack.