Improv 2, Week 1

This entry is a riff of Kati Chaple's "Returning Madame Brovary"

At the bookstore counter, I am waiting
on a cashier who won't take my return
without managerial approval, to be granted by Bill,
who is on managerial break,
and I wonder, what if,
what if I lean across this counter, scattering
the blue and black ink pens,
the red-foiled chocolates
and grab his narrow necktie,
choke him slightly, pull
his pocked face to mine and kiss him,
pushing my tongue into his mouth,
while sliding my hand down the front
of his flat-frong khakis to his crotch,
then would I get what I want?
After all, isn't that what we all want:
to be pursued with single-minded urgency?
To have customers, lovers, readers
who are like the man who's been sitting in prioson
for ten years with only his mother and blonde cousin for visitors?
To have him reah through the bars
to what's past them -
to the female prison guard who lingers,
studies her nails, count floor tiles,
like she's waiting for something
more than the end of the shift?


In this piece, the speaker utilizes the adulterous plot of Madame Bovary to reverse the general expected experience of returning a book to a bookstore. In my riff, I shall try to mimick this reversal by using the plot of one of my favorite movies in an unexpected situation.


101 Red Curls

As I sit it arts and crafts
watching the puppies
trek across the screen,
to avoid their possible doom
of being executed and sheared,
I look around and take in my own
litter of pre-schoolers,
my eyes catch the sight of
a little girl in front of me,
who's curly red pig tails bounce,
as she tilts her head from side to side
shrieking in laughter
in awe of the characters of the screen,
and I wonder,
what if I stretch forward, just so,
use my sharp scissors in my drawer
and begin clip that pretty little hair of hers?
Snip, snip, snip,
And the curls crumple and bounce daintily to the floor,
a movement so fluid that I cut another
and another and another until she has none.
And I sprinkle my desk with her curls to create
a masterpiece of my own, using strand after strand
to construct a dense, firey red jungle upon my easel
then would that make her stop screaming?
She's spoken of love for her hair constantly,
and to lose something dear is to lose one's tongue,
And isn't this something we've desired?
To take from someone else, to quiet them so that we
may speaker louder, especially if their say is trivial?
To cut away at their hearts held dear, if only to
get their attention and silence them?
Expression in many shapes,
can shock common sense
into our victims.
They would then know not to cross us again
as we smile in content.
After all,
shreading fur off of poor innocent puppies,
isn't all that funny.

For this piece, I was thinking of how when adults are surrounded by children in a kids movie, the kids often do things to agitate them (even if their just having fun). The main imagery was that of cutting the little girl's hair to reflect Cruella DeVille's cutting of the puppies' fur in the movie. One wouldn't expect for an adult of authority to inact such strange behavior upon a small child in public, especially during a Disney film. But the speaker tries to justify herself by stating that the hair cut would be a method of both discipline and creativity. However, it is really just hypocritical on her part.