The Refinery

Janna Plant

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York

The Refinery by Janna Plant Copyright 2009 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 9781935402091 Library of Congress Control Number : 2008943138 BlazeVOX [books] 14 Tremaine Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org

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Table of Refinement
Time Frame b.1976-2007 Setting Los Angeles Suburb El Segundo: A Refinery Town
I. Body Parts a. Crude at the Beach: Grand and El Porto b. Home (The Cracking Units) i. Pine Avenue ii. East Grand Avenue iii. Hillcrest iv. Mariposa c. On the Road to Refinement II. Mouth Only a. Fractional Distillation b. Boiling Point

The Refinery

The Prologue: Situation

A refinery town attempts to refine a girl into a woman. A refinery turns crude oil into a marketable product. A writer attempts to refine language into prose. A writer refines crude words into a marketable product. The girl and the writer confront the refinement process and witness the historical context that surrounds.

Body parts serve as points of memory. Locations serve as points of action. Refinement is the exit process from childhood, for the girl, and for the fiction.

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I. BODY PARTS
a. Crude at the Beach: Grand and El Porto
Gut: 1 August 1992. Sixteen. Dear sky and passing cotton clouds, I sift sand through pale hands and think, Refine me. Make me a lady. Desirable to men. A happily-ever-after man. Dad said of my older sis: She doesnt have a man and she doesnt have any savings put away for the future. Man would refine my crude self. Refine crude self to get man. Change me. Refine. Not marketable as I am. Not useful. Refineries turn crude oil into a useful product. I see oil tankers on the horizon--two of them.

Upturned Palm: Dear grain of sand, Eighteen today. 1 August, 1994. Mom had a dream last night that I died. Arguing with a random vagrant in Downtown L.A. I backed into the boulevard where atomization by bus occurred. Thanks for letting me know, Mom. In the dream she called me Helena. Grain of sand, you are stuck in a lump of tar. You cling to my heel like a metastasized cancer. I walk you home with me.

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XX chromosome: Dear driftwood, Thanksgiving, 2007. Grandma hairsprayed her do in preparation for the ER. My mother takes after her. One hour before my arrival into this world, she showered at home, pausing to grope white tiles.

Eyes: Dear concrete bathroom stall w/ no door, Thirty today. Walking here saw some puppies trotting alongside the road. Plump potatoes rolling along get along lil doggies plump potatoes rocking down the rollicking roadway and they were headed--I saw where they were headed. Mama Mama on the side of the road. Knocked out. One eye bleeding, nose wet with red and the puppies went straight for the tits, straight for life, the milk, that honey still dripping from the dying body. Keeps on giving. The fawn coat. Full color. Auburn sunset.

Clit: 14 July 1994. Dear night-flying seagulls, the stars that dimple the sky. I wrote today: Sensual lions. Clumsy monkeys. At 13 sex was silent, awake under sheets, behind doors, in porcelain tubs. Now I want to scream into the nightdaylight muddy dirt absorbing my heels, absorbing my toes--leaves shivering on Einstein trees, glowing in phosphorescence. Dads at the beach-side processing plant tonight. A shut-down. Might last three days. I walked here to be close. Alcohol breath always comes with the end of a shut-down.

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Clit: 15 June 2000. Dear night seagulls, please dont shit on me. I wrote today: Feral full moon again. Sometimes I fight the transformation. Tired of masturbation. LayLie still, Fight to Kill the tremors, the lengthening teeth, the watering eyes. I lick the salt off my skin, swallow, and look into darkness. Oil tanker on the horizon lit by the moon looks lonely. Think of the people on it. The ship shifts in the sea, the air sticking salt to their skin--the same air sticks to me. The Right Brain (Not necessarily the correct brain): January 2006. Dear broken-down rock jetty, I would rather hed fuck himself across America and the globe but not forget about me and not get tangled in another relationship and not die and not get HIV. Sun sears my pale skin today. Hot on a January afternoon. I squint to kick it off my cheek. No luck. Lungs: 1Aug 2007 Dear discarded snorkel and mask, You remind me of a gas mask. I could use one in this town, but its not offered. Soldiers could use them. I think of war when I see you. America is not at war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall. I saw that in cursive spray paint on the sidewalk in front of the High School. All I did about that was breathe, laugh and exhale because Mask, you know its true. (Task for life is to fix the following: The clusterfuck of emotion and circumstance and the inimitable confusion of human existence.) Designed to destroy the world? Mom said she left Dad because the alcohol on his breath got to her. After work today, Dad deposited a paycheck, drove home, removed his

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greasy boots, attempted to shower the refinery off his skin, heated a bowl of soup, slurped it, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chomped it, fell asleep in front of Cheers re-runs. Once the cheering ceased, the ten oclock news aired to the living room furniture, my father included. President Bushs mouth said thered been only limited military and police progress in Iraq following the reinforcement of troop levels. Cerebellum: 11 April 1994 Dear silicone-enhanced bikinid rollerblader, Wait. Wait. Youre missing it. Its this blade of grass right here. This blade, and this petal. Look. Living its dying right with us. S-y-m-b-i-o-s-i-s. The pouty pink fluorescent lips sing to silent music. The tanned ass-cheeks, separated by mint floss, skate on by. Tar, the size of a beauty mark, gums itself quietly to the dancing skin. My sister. Lips: 1 Aug 2006 Dear hand-held mirror, At the beach, lubed with sunblock, I check my lipstick. Thirty today. Turning lips into moist red fruit. Id smear if anyone touched me. Pores: 24 Aug 2006 Dear greasy bottle of sunblock, Oh the joy of acne. A pimple a day keeps the men away. Seagull shit anywhere on the body works, too. Yes, feeling sexy today.

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b. Home (The Cracking Units) i. Pine Avenue

Gums: March 1990. Dear old toothbrush with scars on your back, Dads front teeth got shot out today. Glad it wasnt his eyes. Metal shrapnelled out of some machine. A high-pressure chamber near what he called the cat cracker. Here kitty, kitty. Want a cracker? Meow. Kappow! Mom redecorated the kitchen today. New S&P shakers, even. My sis picked one of them up, giggling, Mom, you just cant escape the penis can you? Abstract penises erect on the oven, white porcelain dildos with spice inside. Mom hadnt noticed the resemblance. Unrestrained ring finger: Spring Break 2006. Dear residuum at the bottom of the oil barrel, My grandmothers dancing partner died. Mom and I watched today as she put away her silver dancing shoes and said, Life just doesnt go as you expect. I always thought Id be surrounded by a big family with lots of laughter and music and grandchildren and a big house. Two of my three children are dead. I have three grandkids. None are married, yet. I may not live to see any children out of them. I hesitate to tell her about the fact that once upon a time, I

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was pregnant. Her mothers name was Kunegunda--straight from Poland. She died of cerebral hemorrhage. My mother and I are kindly reminded of this. But my Grandmother is tough. She stopped her own father from beating Kunegunda, and at seventy-two, she crawled out of a rolled vehicle and walked home. Hospitals are where you get sick, shed said. Tongue: Easter Break 1982. Dear metal rabbit ears, Hiding behind your television box, I silver-spoon brown crystal sweetness onto my pink tongue, push it to the roof of my mouth, (roof of my mouth?) ceiling of my mouth-- As I hear Vanna spelling out destinies. Then I hear my mother yelling for me to get dressed for dinner. Bacteria: Spring Break 2001. Dear front-door with blue peeling paint. This is what you heard my mother say to me: Oh your poor face. Those look like they hurt. I responded with a smirk and wave of my hand, so she would let me enter the old house. Skin: Dear bathroom mirror, 1992. Sixteen today. I found a position for my bare ass on the counter and pressed my face against you. Chin, cheek, nose, forehead. Eyes. Like messing with a loose tooth, the inquiry satisfies and pains me--a simultaneous moment. The pores of my skin show

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evidence of my atmosphere. Dirt, dust,oil. The grit cant lie. Industry abounds. Im changing. Appendix: 27 January 1991. Dear beaten-up door frame, Mom hugged me today and looked into my eyes. Commented that someday my true love would look down into my eyes in just that same manner. Was there something about a wedding kiss? Superbowl Sunday today. One channel has the halftime light show with flying skirts and legs. Another channel has firecracker streamers shooting through a dark enemy sky. I dont see legs flying. Thats all I know about the War. Skin and Cartilage Tendons: 25 December 1994. Oh Christmas tree, A man to love. A manatee to love. Either one, anything but a bellyache and a box of chocolates. Christmas is for what? I forget. I stuck the turkey knife in the hollow belly. The bones hugged together by bits of skin and cartilage tendons. I photographed the gutted carcass where it sat in metal on the turquoise counter, held Mom in the background of the frame. Her strained (divorce impending) smile killing my lens. I miss you so much, Mom. Dad, I miss you, too. Ive kinda missed you since the day we met. Oh sweet bellyache.

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Tear ducts: 1 Jan 1995. Dear sage carpet and dog hairs, Told Mom and Dad Im moving out. Glad thats over. Dad couldnt stop taking those deep breaths--like he was watching hell rise before him. Mom was reserved. Her paper heart melted in on itself. I wanted to be with

her by myself but we addressed them as one unit, a novel endeavor. I wouldnt have been able to tell Dad. I wouldnt be moving out if I had to tell them alone. Probably a real shocker when we said I was moving out. Inarticulate tongue: Dear apricot tree, 2 January 1995. Just had a real fight with Dad. What was it like when he chainsawed through some of your limbs? I notice that you havent grown the same since. School. He asked me if I would have gone if the money existed. Eighteen snuck up on him pretty fast. We address the obvious too late, always. I replied in the negative and let the lie rot in my whole mouth. He claimed he and I are more similar than I realize. Not sure if I see it.