12 January 2006 | Vol. 5, No. 4

Thanksgiving Prayer Girl

by JASON BREDLE

The coach of Team Lavender reads

an inspirational message off of a football

before throwing a perfect spiral into a tight

end's face. Go Lavender! As I am eating

at Ridiculous Burger or cutting my hair, I am

becoming Jesse, who is like me only certain

of things that only Jesse would be certain of:

cupcake dreams, watermelon. Amongst

the Santa Rosas in early, early morning,

love and darkness mean nothing to Jesse,

mean everything to me. In the big fun

disaster, I revisit every place

we loved one another and cry, I fall

asleep to the same song in the back of a Jeep

night after night, oftentimes doubting

my place among Team Lavender's well-hung

Adonises. (Jesse wanders into a nearby

Radio Shack, wanders out hurriedly).

In the big fun disaster, a woman I love

removes her purple hair strand by strand

and I frantically collect my clothing

for the well-hung delivery boy. Fred

Allen says that California is a fine

place to live if you happen to be an orange,

though Jesse doubts he's ever spent any time

in the Mojave, where oranges go to die.

A well-hung Jimmy Carter says,

who do they think they elected, Fred Allen?

In the big fun disaster, I lose my keys

on top of Nevada, break open my luggage

and sleep with a cat who wears a bra

and bites my feet throughout the night.

In the morning, I wake before you, and, like

a well-hung Jesse, leave without

saying goodbye. The coach of Team Lavender

draws up some type of brilliant

play that I can't read for the dust in my eyes.

I do not want to hurt her. She dresses

before the window, says something that someone

from Texas would say if that someone

were also alone and goose bumpy.

(Unlike Jesse, who runs into Peggy

of all people!) Right now, God

is covering the earth with carcasses. Look deep

into the dolphin's face at sunset and see

the orange and lavender rainbow of love, says

the coach of Team Lavender. In the big fun

disaster, I lay my love to forever rest

on the Long Beach Freeway. I am crying

at my desk, I am about to do something terrible.

I am an Albanian. I wrote this on my super

technologically advanced manual typewriter.