Awls

            The shack is painted red and all the things inside are dusty. The sunlight slants in through a single smudged window. The awl, the hammer, the files, and bins of nails are all laid upon the workbench, slumbering in the sawdust air. The workbench is patient. The swallows fly around all day, their nests cling to the eaves. The roof may as well be made of moss, its shingles grown fertile from long years of falling pine needles and raindrops. The ants feel out of place inside. The air suspends itself, one molecule upon another, built in great invisible shrouds.

Morning after

Steve lay in bed staring at the pattern created by sunlight sifting through the sheets over his eyes. Little honeycombs of unfocused refraction bounced into his retinas. He wondered what caused these funny patterns; maybe it was the light beams themselves bending, or maybe it was his eyes bending around them.

Steve lay in bed staring at the ceiling. There was nothing particularly interesting on the ceiling, so he got bored quickly. He kept looking at the ceiling though because it was a little less difficult than thinking about light refractions, and besides he was bored with those too now.

Steve lay in bed staring at the window. It was made of glass rectangles the size of his head, stuck together with white wooden fixings. The painters had slopped paint from the fixings onto the panes, which daubed lightness on the view beyond the window.

Steve coughed gently.

Steve stared at his desk lamp. It was a good desk lamp that had served him well. He wasn’t sure if it were halogen or compact fluorescent, but he knew it produced light when it was dark, and that was pretty impressive in and of itself. Steve wondered how many hours that lamp had been turned on, and how many more it would be used before the bulb would die. He also wondered whether it actually produced light, or if it just sucked in darkness like a photonic vacuum cleaner.

Steve’s mouth was dry and his head felt numb.

Steve thought about taking a shower. He pictured the steamy water scalding his skin, opening the shower window to let fresh, frigid air in, and staring at the giant tree outside, with happy sun rays wafting in on his wet face. He rolled over and covered his back with the sheet. The sheet felt a little scummy, but he’d wash it tomorrow. Maybe.

Steve thought about his plans for the day. First he would eat something, he supposed. Maybe a frozen burrito or ramen cup. And then he would ride his bike somewhere, perhaps, like the post office, because he hadn’t checked his mailbox for a long while. And maybe he would see someone he knew and start chatting to them, and be invited to another party tonight. He thought he’d politely refuse, and then ride his bike back.

Steve reached down to his waist to see why it was sore and saw that he was still wearing the belt with the giant buckle his dad had bought him in Miami three years ago. The bull-horn shaped had been branded above his crotch because he’d been sleeping on his stomach.

Steve thought about getting out of bed, getting a glass of water, or seven, downing a couple Advil, taking a shower, getting some food, going outside, running some errands, maybe even starting a little work if he felt so inclined, and generally participating in vertically oriented activities. But all he did was think about them. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

Good Morning (500 Friday)

            One day Jeremiah was driving to work and he got stuck behind a street sweeper. It was loud and he could see the dark grey exhaust pouring out of its backside. He drove along on the very clean street at five miles an hour, cursing the whole way.

            “Goddamn traffic sweeper thing in my way!”

            It turned down a different residential street, and his way was clear. He floored it. Soon he was at 7-11, picking up Shawn and purchasing their customary morning slushies. He got blue raspberry, like he sometimes liked to. Shawn was also mad because apparently on the way to the 7-11 a biker had run through a puddle right next to him, splashing all kinds of mud ovals on his pants. He had run back home to change, and luckily Jeremiah was late because of the street sweeper.

            “That bike dude was a turd.”

            They got on the highway and chose to rock out to AC/DC. They were still a little mad or something, and Jeremiah got to speeding. He was going fifteen over swerving around a VW bug when a cop appeared behind them and started flashing its lights.

            “That thing was nowhere! It came from the sky!”

            The cop was nice because Jeremiah gave him his half-empty slushie. As they drove away he pounded fists with Shawn in an exasperated and relieved way.

            “We sure are lucky sometimes.”

            Off the freeway again, they saw some abandoned sofas on the exit ramp. The foam was showing through most of the cushions and it was black.

            “Yo remember that, I want that flowery one.”

            The light, like normal, went green twice for the other two directions before finally letting them through. A BMW with a clear case of young professional road rage was right behind them, flashing her brights the instant the light changed. She honked several times over the next two blocks and changed lanes four times, but still she was behind them.

            “OK lady! Take some of this!”

            He braked hard then accelerated, then repeated that for several minutes. She finally took a side street. They were grinning because it was fun. Until they noticed what time it was, because the little glowing digits read 9:11.

            “Work starts at nine!”

            “No crap!”

            “Plus 9:11 is unlucky!”

            They were only three blocks away and had to sit at each red light and watch mattress and sandwich salesmen walk out onto the street corners and adjust their body signs. One held his up for a few minutes before he crawled into it so that he could know exactly what he was selling with his body. It was a five dollar foot long. They pulled into the parking lot and somehow both managed to slam the edge of the sport jacket into the car door.

            “Damn!”

            “Damnit!”

            “Shut up!”

            And right when they were getting out of the car the clouds decided to let loose a brief fluster of rain.

            “Wet!”

            Then the day started.

It was never meant to be torn. The sunbathed wearers, shorn of escapades wrought on the horizon pleaded insanity, but only the whistling bristles swayed towards infinity. The liars and cheats, the scoundrels and hags.  And to what purpose could it possibly serve while the doldrums abound in resilient anticipation of the calm? They lay dormant once, twice, and maybe the third was a fairy-tailed fluke. Gestation could only last for so long and the sepulchre of morn lingered in corners of hatching shadows. Perhaps the yearning roar could not sustain its insatiable fight. The denizen of the dreadful, palpable might. 

Focus

One day, she woke up and the world was out of focus. She tried to make out the clock, but it was just a blurry white and black orbs. But it wasn’t just her eyes. It wasn’t that simple. She tried speaking, and words entered her ears as if they were insulated in marshmallows. She tried moving. It was like walking in hummus. The air was dense and thick, and she felt as if she was breathing in feathers. Frustration wasn’t even an option, because her own thoughts seemed to drip away like beads of sweat on a hot day.  

Guest Post: Mary-Ann Ortiz-Luis

It took me a while to understand my profound grief over your new life away. I realize now that I feared you would be taking with you all eighteen years of who I have been. It turns out, you didn’t. You have not really left. You are in the hum of the kitchen and the hallways, the music from your piano, the dog-eared books you read and shared, the organized clutter of your things. You never really left. You are always here.

The proverbial umbilical cord no longer pulls nor strains. Rather, a welcome of separateness has taken over.

little things

What is seen without the eyes? What is tasted without the tongue? What is smelt through ears and heard on skin?

The little things. The refractions. Tiny ripples in perception lost in the barrage of rich information.

What if you could only taste without your tongue? Grab a chunk of prime rib in between your fingers and squeeze; listen to the echo of its long lost beating heart; feel the distant shadow of its warm and grass-stained breath.

Would you feel disabled, incomplete, distant? Or would the richness of experience drawn from ephemeral peripheral hints of meaning distill life pure?

Who

Greetings. You look nice today. Thanks. You too. Want to watch me brush my teeth again? I guess you have to.

Why do you never say anything? All you do is look! What if I don’t want you to look? DON’T LOOK. Speak! SPEAK TO ME.

Very well.

Oh God. Oh no. No. You didn’t say anything. No!

Yes. I did.

WHAT! Who are… you?

Myself.

So you can talk.

Of course.

But… why only now?

Why not.

What’s that sound?

The shower curtain.

You can hear! How?

You can hear.

You’re creepy.

Hmmm.

Please leave.

You wouldn’t want that.

Guest Author: Maggie Oran

Today I did not open my mouth. I didn’t say a word. I watched the planes swerve through the sky, eerie angles adorned with lights, talking to the night in a loud, low hum the same way that waves talk to the sand. On the ground, the orb-shaped street lights lit the undersides of oaks; the trees looked artificial, as though in a set for a play. In the darkroom, in the mysterious half-light, in plastic pans of not-water, black lines became windows, carousels, and fog over the beach – bookshelves, and shadows. I leaned over and watched in silence.

Guest Author: Maggie Oran

Don’t drink the water – read the signs. Don’t tell me your purple nail polish matches what you’re wearing (or anything you own). This is character development. I know where you’re going, and I’ll make sure you get there.

Watch your step, and put on a pair of more comfortable shoes. You have to listen to me, because I won’t go away, you can’t make me leave. Put on your sunglasses. You don’t want them to know what you might have been in a past life, or even yesterday. Sometimes I think life moves too fast, you know what I mean?

Ten Poems

Jewelry sold
Time’s getting old
And the crosswalks are wide
 

Blink
Stroller mom
Sidewalk thinking other things
Shopping-cart bum
Blink
 

Fresh trim to adorn
Houses been torn
Paint worn
Reborn
 

Freedom?
            Richdom
            Poordom
Freedom?
            Babydom
            Elderlydom
Freedom?
            Blackdom
            Whitedom
            Mexicandom
 

An overflowing abortion clinic
And a high horse political cynic
 

Door was open wide
Stepped through
You were not inside
 

You gave
Nice Smile
I’ll behave
Rusty knife
Placid life
 

Professor Loague has a backwards hat and asks many questions
 

Stumps
Are understandable
When I’m wandering.
Roofs and forests above
 

Where
Are
Silver toy cars?
Here
Comes
A large animal

Sunrise Farms (FIN)

            “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “WEED!” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.” “Weed.”

Thank you, kind sir

Some crusty old man approaches me one day.

Nothing compels—not pity—my stay,

I see red rimming his moistened, sleep-deprived eyes,

yet I stand transfixed as his cigarette dies.

He coughs and asks for only one thing

Will I listen to his song? The only song he can wring

out of his bones, into the air, for me

for them, for all the world to see.

I open my ears and the old man stands tall

He opens his mouth, I welcome the fall

of languid squalor, such dulcet tones.

It says, I have been there, and I am alone.

Lies

What if I said I didn’t love you anymore?

Try it.

I don’t love you anymore.

I don’t believe you.

Well, that’s because I still love you.

Then why would you ask me what I thought if you said you didn’t love me anymore.

I don’t know. It was a thought experiment.

For what?

I don’t know. Maybe to see if you if you still loved me.

Why don’t you just ask?

No.

Why?

Because I don’t want to know the answer.

Try it.

 

Do you still love me?

No.

I don’t believe you.

Well, that’s because I still do. 

Race or chase

Running running running running running feet don’t graze the ground to breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breath doesn’t grace the throat to beat beat beat beat beat blood barely hits the heart doesn’t drip drip drip drip drip sweat slips down the brow over gaze gaze gaze gaze gaze the horizon isn’t any closer to taste taste taste taste taste the metal sandpaper of thirst so rush rush rush rush rush adrenals squeeze free energy and crack crack crack crack crack bones rube bones and moan a wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder why are you still alive? Because you do.

Garden And All

Nothing depends on that red wheelbarrow
Sitting in the corner of the garden
I see it
And smile with the earthworms.
They wriggle up its iron haunches
Smiling and giggling.
Rain, chickens, hoes, vegetables
That garden is a city block
Or a deep-sea vent
Where extremophiles gurgle.
Oh silky puddles!
Confused pumpkin flowers!
You’re not the reason I’m here
With my arched rib bones
And cathedral heart.
Perpetual glaze of dragonflies
Song movements of the shadows
I see them
And take feather drop steps
So my sneakers stay clean.
Curious eyes
And I am inside
They miss my belt buckle.

Group project

1:I think it’ll be okay if it’s ten pages?
2:Maybe if we double space it…
3:but it’s only supposed to be seven!
2:Maybe we can just double space some parts?
1:No we should do the whole ten. Ten’s a nice number.
3:You’re mum’s a nice number, we can’t have more than seven!
2:Oh no, someone stole cookie dough from my dorm’s fridge…
3:Stop checking email!
1:Yeah we really need to finish this!
2:Hey shut up you were on facebook!
3:that’s different!
2:Pshh right. I’m hungry!
4:[looks up] I just permanently deleted the whole document. You guys figure this out. Peace.

Sunrise Farms (III)

            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            After each time he said “weed”, Blake added a number in his head.
            “Weed.” 4,214.
            “Weed.” 4,215.
            Each night he carefully entered his day’s total into a small notebook, totaling as he went. In three years at Sunrise Farms, he had pulled a little over nine million weeds. It was his self-imposed penance; only when he had pulled ten million little plants out of the soil would he allow himself to return home and enroll in the last class he needed to earn his high school diploma. He combed through a zucchini plant. Soon, now.
            “Weed.” 4,528.

Things to Do in Palo Alto

Riding our bikes down University Ave. only on sidewalks

and press our noses to the creamery windows,

eyeing dreamery aisles of milkshakes and sammies

Cruising down the El Camino

(Double “the.” Morons.)

            Zooming vehicles along on “the car”—har har har

Taking a different approach…walking it

            now it’s seemingly interminable, “the car,”

almost tempting to hitch hike, but hah, in Palo Alto?

Lamenting the banality of your situation in Palo-hum-diddly-Alto

            shutting down before the cows come home. Usually.

so far from San-buzz-buzz-buzz-Francisco

Brainstorming together about what to do in Palo-peachy-Alto

            what to do what to to do what to do?

Guest Author: MBrandt

Convenience

How it is: fruit on the bottom! (mix it yourself). Self-service gas! (pump
it yourself). Speedy checkout lanes! (scan and bag your items yourself).

That's not really convenience. Sometimes more personal involvement doesn't
mean better- it just means more work.

What's next? Build your own television kits! Do it yourself doctor's
appointments! Subway: now featuring a make your own sandwich station!

I see what they are trying to do.

Here is what I want: Chicken sandwiches at the touch of a remote! Adjustable
weather! Not just predictive texting, but predictive phone calls!

Now that's some convenience for your ass.

1 in a 100

Dialing 1, 2, 3.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz

Beep.

 

Operator: Operator.

Caller: I’d like to be transferred to Mr. Richard Tratham please.

Operator: Are you holding any radioactive or potentially hazardous substances?

Caller: No.

Operator: Understand that we are not responsible for the loss of any clothing, accessory, or jewelry components. In the event that part of your entity is damaged or somehow altered in the transference, please see a--

Caller: --Yes, I know the drill.

Operator: Please hold.

 

Shwzaspperueska;lskeqkejrlapsoqazzzzzzz—

 

Error: Transferrence incomplete.

Operator: Sir?

 

Operator: Sir? Oh no, Maureen, get the nuclear positron zapnaf. We have another one.

The Wanderer

            The pillow was lumpy no matter how she fluffed it. She had opened the window, and the breeze had finally lost its heat. She counted, lying on her back, backwards and forwards...

            Then she heard something. A lonely wail, washed over again and again by the night air. Frogs croaking. Or a man singing?

            Slipping to the window, she stuck her head out. The house stood alone on a hill and below her spread the black fields. In the middle of one flickered a fire, and the breeze brought her the words.

“Momma I been away

Momma I’m gonna stay”

Pizza

Pizza. There. She did it. Every single time she stares at that glowing white rectangle with blinking black ‘I’ in the left top corner, the first word that comes to her mind is Pizza. It’s a tic. She has no control, takes no responsibility. My name is Aida, and I’m an alcoholic. Absolution through forced voluntary admission. Perhaps now her slate’d be clean, now she could talk about anything without knowing an Italian delight would slowly be cooling in the corner, left dejectedly out, rejected by her inability to reign in her mind. Pizza, pizza pizza. The reason she purged.

Cold-pressed Time

The cycle of semantics seems inherently compelling swelling jelly swirling hell he barely gropes to stay afloat among a mass of messy sea to see two seers who be freer than the sleepers— who peep once— know the ensconced persons want one per bun but don’t get none (his will was done when he shot gun then run begun and won’t come home to comb the loam tomed in his bones, he can’t become a humdrum bum from Mumma’s slum ‘cause scars cut far, stuck in black tar, ash wafts above bizarre cigars); thus rush to brusquely thrust… he must.

Nose Goes

“Wanna go to the market?”

“Sure, I could grab a bite.” Mark shrugged.

Penny laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

She just shook her head and hopped down from the bed. “Let’s go!”

Once through the sliding doors, Penny immediately darted to the pasta aisle. Mark was thinking of a nice fettucini alfredo, but there were no sauce-filled jars, nor packages of pasta. There were just walls with rows and rows of indents.

“Mmmm!” Penny pressed her nose into a groove labelled “marinara.”

“Uh…I thought we were getting food.” 

She laughed again.

“You’re so silly, what century do you think we’re in?”

Honest

Acting is fascinating and problematic for me. I’ve had glimpses of what it’s like to really act and they’ve been glorious moments of liberation! I don’t know how to induce or control these uninhibited releases of creative spontaneity so that they happen when I want them to and for a longer period of time! More often than not, I find myself drifting slowly back into awareness of myself, and that severely clamps down on my ability to…act. It’s the ugly side of self-realization. It manifests itself in hesitation, but I’m learning to stop stopping and just go with the flow.

Sunrise Farms (II)

            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            Jenny tried to look at each weed as an ancient tree, and imagined the little clod of dirt clinging to the roots was a massive hunk of the earth’s crust being rent from the ground. The blooming rows of dahlias in which she worked all day with Blake and the new guy Tyler were galaxies with bursting suns and orbiting planets. Earthworms were dinosaurs. She did this to feel smaller, like her life in these few acres was just as cosmic and meaningful as that of a famous poet or author. Each day, the weeds grew higher.

Oh Noetry

(Collabo between Chris and Charmaine late at night)

How hunger eats mealworms
Amazing Anastasia like fold and teal
Gold coin, bullion poppy fields
Tape the door shut
Bridge over decimate palpitate congruently fluently
Snake skin drain galaxies
Menagerie of fire forestry
Big Ben oversees oceans dispenser flavor
Gown faded traded and escapaded
Twin origin origami soup flyers
Bollards bonanza
Pop goes my weasel
Reason isn’t princely or humane bubbles
Trailer park mailer arc stop
Begin how to start enjoying this stardust
Hobo hopping assuredly Argentina
Autumn struts without pompous phone books
Ceremonial belt
Secondary slip
Everybody waits for some miraculous minor shirtsleeve
Gentrification can what around phantoms apparent

Many uses for a roll of toilet paper

Many uses for a roll of toilet paper:

1) Wipe your bum
2) Blow your nose
3) Piece of art
4) Didgeridoo
5) Bandage for a swollen finger
6) Telescope
7) Head pillow
8) Football
9) Wallpaper with its elegant textures
10) Surrender flag
11) Step-up to reach the top of the medicine cupboard
12) Sponge for soaking up spilt milk
13) Telephone over shoutable distances
14) Scroll for unimportant scribbles
15) Book-end for light reading
16) Lamp shade on dirty lamps
17) Fuel for bonfire
18) Deodorant for underarms
19) Exterior decoration for house or office
20) Bottomless cup

After School

“Suze?”

“Yeeeesss?” Suzie replied from the other room.

“There’re critters in the kitchen.”

“Ohhh?”

“They’re squirming all over the walls.”

“Okayyy, well whatta they look like, Ali?” Suzie asked.

“Candy. They’re candy critters.” Ali peered down at the writhing mass of bug-like treats rushing around her ankles. Junior Mints with hairy legs scuttled and segmented Twinkies squirmed worm-like along the countertop.

Ali chomped down on a Hot Tamale caterpillar. “They still taste the same.”

“Sure.”

Ali brushed some Milk Dud leeches off the chair and opened her phone. “Suze, Josh didn’t message back. Do you think he still likes me?”

Oh baby.

How don’t you look? Soft ripe peach fuzz with gently baked bread enshrouded in creamy tan silk from a tropical coconut beach in the middle of the deserted Pacific… innocent raw beauty waiting to be observed. Graceful crests are divided by a sensuous dark valley, a naughty valley, pointing up to heaven and impossibly down to heaven too; it’s an arrow, a helpful sign at a branch in the road that advises, “Settle down, either way’s good!” Up to lips and down to lips! But whether or not you follow its direction, it’s the line you keep coming back to.

And she lived happily ever after

Once upon a time there was a princess, but this princess was not head over heels in love with her prince-to-be. In fact, she thought he was ugly, crass, and frankly, mentally retarded. The wedding was soon. It was too late to grow her hair, and forget about the fairy godmother—she had set up a sustainable transportation business. The princess had to take things into her own hands, and that’s exactly what she did. On the day of the wedding she socked the prince a good one, used her dress as a flotation device, and paddled into the horizon.

Sunrise Farms

           “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            “Weed.”
            To pass the time they said “weed” each time they pulled one up, no matter how small.
            Tyler rocked back on his heels and wiped at his forehead with his grimy rubber glove. The last three days had been nothing but weeding; he had stopped trying to get the dirt from under his fingernails at night. Once he shouted “WEED!” to be funny. Jenny and Blake had smiled a little. Three days at his new job at Sunrise Farms, and he still knew nothing about the two except how they tended to say “weed”. It felt strange.

Words/MY MIND

            Spirals shellacking sounds like papyrus stacking and a virus attacking but the breeze brings things meant for the trees, the leaves, the miniscule prophesies of a thousand degrees of periscopes and perishing hopes and cherishing various areas of hilarious precarious provisions that envision the missions and carry contortions so many revisions will bury the oceans and deliver the motions, the potions, the quotients so slivers are removed and misgivers are to prove the foundational spatial relational players of meditational prayers, the truth-sayers, the movement of stars and musical bars and everything, everywhere, the county fair, all my hair, and INFINITY!!!

Grandiose

Ladies and Gentlemen, I speak to you now from a position of well-informed consent, of which extreme precautions were taken. This is of the utmost importance, significant not only in the realms of idea and thought, but of movement and speech. It has induced cataclysmic factors in the past, influenced eminent facets of the present world, and continues to seep insidiously into the future. The power and will of the people will be heard, willingly or not, but if it must be articulated in this form, one way or another, neither friend nor foe can succeed, nor can events transpire. 

Negative Nancy

Nancy was a cute kid, a smiling baby with a gap between her front teeth. She grew up to be an angsty teen and an even more bitter college graduate, feeling hopeless in her pursuit for a life that just didn’t suit her. “Let your path unfold,” her sister once told her. Her sister, constantly changing religions, was frankly annoying. Nancy was so bitter and uptight, that her path remained stubborn and quite folded. “You ever gonna have kids, honey?” her mother asked. She kept her lips firmly closed, not to mention other things (which may have been the problem). 

Sandra

Sandra shuffled when she walked because the heels of her shoes were too far from the heels of her feet on account of they were too high. Sandra didn’t mind the shuffling when anyone was looking but she hated the little scuffle-scuffle secretly when she was alone, traipsing down an afternoon avenue on her was home from school. Sometimes dumb boys would ride their skateboards past her and their shoes would shuffle but somehow it was okay and even a good thing; but she just wanted to be taller, and more woman-shaped, and less young. Until then, she scuffled.

Come ON!

All I wanna do is write, this computer crap is crampin my style all I wanna do is get down some precious thoughts before they vanish into the aether but the file wont open the power won’t turn on the program won’t run my keys stick the lights are broken my mac has a virus and those are rarer than shiny pokemon cards my power cord doesn’t reach the wall my screen’s too glary but fuck all I wanna do is write, man, when did my world shift to require electricity to write? Gimme blood and papyrus I’m gonna write.

The Copy Machine

            On Tuesday he went to work as normal. The copy machine acted up during lunch break, growing tentacles that knocked papers, staplers, and things everywhere. So he stuffed the rest of his egg salad sandwich into his left cheek and turned his right forearm into an axe, chopping off all the tentacles. The severed pieces, green and blotchy, twitched and turned into sushi rolls, which he and his coworkers greedily ate the rest of the afternoon. That night as he slept the sushi-tentacles in his stomach cried out longingly. But he was very tired, so he did not hear them.

Lyrics

How happy are you,
On a scale of one and two?
 
Oh you’re a fool, you’re a fool!
 
Where did you see me
Where did the night fly
Where would you see me
If the turtles cried?
 
Not too cool, too cool!
 
And if the core of the earth
Came to the surface
Would we like it?
And if the stars in the skies
Gave us our purpose
Would we try?
 
Ohhhhh ohhhhhh
 
Father of the feathers!
Mother of the meanderers!
And here we are again
 
Not so good, not so good
No not so good, not so good
 
Ohhhhhhhhh

Wasting Time

I took the minutes, the hours, the days, the hands of the clock, the digital pigments on my watch, too. Scrunched ‘em up real good into one compact jumble of numbers and moments, and tossed ‘em over my shoulder. True, they weren’t used fragments. In fact, many of those moments were still hollow and glowing with potential energy and space to be filled.  But nope, they’re in the bin now. I’m not going to watch the numbers fly past my eyes, nor the hands spin round and round in futile ecstasy. I’ve conquered you, foul demon of the fourth dimension.

Pineapple and Toast

Moods are bitchy little things aren’t they? Who gave neurotransmitters— mere chemicals— the power to spoil a giggly Sunday brunch or render a sharply rainy day in glad, fuzzy hues? Moods are malleable, changeable even – like a heavy, moth-eaten coat taken off on a muggy day; but when you remove it the lining sticks to your arm and the scent lingers behind. Bad moods burden one with Sisyphean weight. Metamorphosis takes arduous effort, mental sweat, unfailing optimism, and blind self-confidence. Constant energy required! Dispelling glumness takes perpetual focus and upkeep. So why bother? Well, life’s more fun when happy...! Attack!

A Bathroom Reader

Whenever I go into a public restroom, I remember this fact I read. It said that contrary to what many believe, the least used stall is the one closest to the entrance. So, naturally I started going into the very first stall in public restrooms, but then I thought, how did they even measure that? Did they record who went into which stall in several major cities? And if I read that statistic in a very well known book, sold in stores nationwide, how many other people are now using the first stall more than they would have before?  

The Spirituals

They sang as they worked, and he sat at his desk, angry. The Georgia air wasn’t moving and the heat sank into his skin. About noon, one of them came to the open window, covered with sweat and red dust, and knocked.

            He shouted, “What is it?”

            The man said, “Suh, we’s wonderin’ if you wantin’ tha graves facin’ uh partic’lur way.”

            He lost his head and threw a paperweight from his desk at the slave, hitting him on the forehead. The slave shouted, then retreated to the field, muttering.

            He pounded his desk and the slaves’ spirituals entered him.

Blind Revelations Before Sunrise

Fog still lingers upon wet asphalt, coating it with an ethereal glow, and street lanterns imbued with a sense of purpose remain lit despite the imminent rise. It’s yellow, but more of the mustard variety. It seeps into your eye sockets if you’re one of the unfortunate ones. Doze-deprived. Slumber-challenged. Some might say zombie. But there is something vaguely enlightening about this time of day. That time when the moon is loitering around in the sky, cherishing the last few precious moments of prominence. I’m not quite sure what it is, though. I think I’ll just go back to sleep.

Oh dear.

There are times when all that I do is imbued with a tangible quality of consequence. When I drink. When I fight. When I fail. This sense is comforting, it grounds me to reality and keeps my head vaguely up and in the rightish direction. Action reaction, it’s the last law. But sometimes there’s a disconnect. The consequences are so removed from the reality that I’m flung far out from the present moment, potential future, and all that exists is an unending past. When I drive a car I feel this way. The slightest nudge could cause calamity. How daft!

The Ferry

            All right people, keep it moving, this ain’t that complicated! One two and through you go! Three four let’s fit some more! That’s right! Plenty of room for everyone on board! Not like my family’s life! No room for me there! Just file to the back of the ferry, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll get ‘er started in no time! No time at all! My dad has no time for me anymore! Hahaha! Sir, ma’am, sir, sir, sir, ma’am, welcome to the Tillimook! Everyone on board? Welcome to the straight of Juan de Fuca! Goodbye land! Take us somewhere, Captain!

Heart

I want to squeeze you with passion until I’m spent and you’re empty. But what will that achieve, we’ll both be gone! I want to nibble your smiled lips until they tickle me back. But then the embrace will falter for we’ll both be laughing! I want to caress your clothed legs, until the cloth is no more. But that could take so long, and clothing isn’t cheap! I want to rest your wanted form flat and answer all questions. But then what could possibly be the point of continued living!

So, we can never be together! Until the end.

Hearth

Good night everyone! Oh you're going? Tell us about your lover! No, maybe tomorrow. I love this fire. I know! The flames lick so high. That's what she said! Gentle giggles. I really want some of those are-gill-o socks. What?! It's the way my friend says argyle! You look wet, close the door! Where'd you come from? A party, but this is cozier. There’s no place more welcoming. More loving. More carefree. More uneventful… in this moment. Everything now is warm, golden, soft and good. We should lie here all weekend!

I want some cocoa, is anyone else so inclined?

Like a moth to a flame...

Sometimes I look at moths and think, wow they’re really very ugly creatures aren’t they? How can they even stand the look of themselves when there are butterflies out there? Sure, they can fly, but only towards lights. And sometimes they’ll perish in their own proverbial flames of passion. Man, if I were a moth, I’d look at my reflection in a window or something and get depressed just seeing how...grey I am. But maybe that’s why they zoom into the fire, so for an instant—even if it’s for a second, dancing pigments alight upon their wings.

Intermingling

            I am not what every person imagine. Possibly I am you, we’re souls, myself  twining together beautiful landscapes. A it, a be. The full whole circle minting O on men, bees, grass, cities, planets, galaxies, firelight, ideologies. Imagination I be. But what, where I am for? What might spring hellish heavenly fantasies, I am not able, I do not know. Trees, leaves swaying wherever I go. Out. Over. Among. I do, I am. One, many, being, beings, a go and feel place amidst careful dreamers wondering. A me who can’t quite retain I or you, they mixed freely between I.

Curses

Some nights a little devil crawls underneath the pillow and happily whispers stories about the future. Tricky fork-tongued creature. These stories aren’t stories at all. Just broken fragments that frustrate. Before you can finish a thought—arrive at some sensible solution—the devil starts in about something else. A little remote bit buried deep—not previously problematic, I swear. Look back and see the little scrap in the false light of present paranoia. Push forward and see the seed grow and dominate. Terror take hold. What will happen tomorrow? Next year? After death? Upon the coming of the Kingdom? What then? What then? Oh my God. Oh my God.

How very Christian of you, my dear.

Ocular

            We stop at a gas station in the dot of Ocular, Utah. Five other buildings. The desert is mirages all around. One way, we see a great river, fruit trees. Other way is a blackberry bramble to the horizon. We fill the tank and ask for a toilet. The attendant says no toilet, just sand here. Says the town once was at a juncture. We look for the other road, no sign of it. Says the other road led to towns that might not exist any more, the asphalt cracked and gave way to sand long time ago. Landscape shimmery.

The Gardener

Tod woke up to the soft, but deliberate sounds of raindrops pitter-pattering. He thought of Jenny. Of Hannah. Of Sofia. All his greatest achievements, and his greatest losses. He had worked so hard, given up so much, and taken so many—too many risks.

The rain intensified, and the drops fell in quicker successions. He felt that if they fell any harder, they would perforate even Emma’s waxy cuticle, the next victim in a series of failures. Heart racing and cortisol flooding his body, he lay there, soaking in the possibilities and horrors. He could not fail her, not this time. 

Sing, Sing, Sing

I’ll belt it out as I please, the shampoo bottle as my microphone and the steam of the hot water rising up like stage spotlights. The tiles feel good beneath my bare feet, and I’m singing like everyone’s watching. You can hear me through the wall, you say? It’s bothering you, you say? I don’t care, at least my whining is melodious. I do not sing for you, anyway. I do not sing for him. Nor for them. I sing because it feels good. So please take your complaints up with my manager. He goes by the name, “Garnier Fructis.” 

Word meal.

Drip-slip-squeeze through your ears thick promiscuous blips
Supple succulent squids of linguistic fizz blitz
Crack-snapped letters burst bones, crunch thick cartilage tones
Anguished guilt-ridden moans blared from brassy trombones.

Sick words freeze foreign film, scummy suds, cough to kill.
Nostrils soar, breezes roar, vanquish dust from the sill
Air-cooled teeth, vacuum fresh, foment this cloudy front,
Sip-slip-burp through breath-tubes but out tumbles a grunt.

Crawling caves filled with filth, grimy life, God and shit,
Mix match mate, re-congeal, picnic on bits of grit.
Munch me more! Microcellular mandates: must build
For high-art sinks so low on a stomach unfilled.

Question?

To the genius who did his reading: Thank you! Here’s a gold star. Shall I stick it on your forehead? Or your breast pocket like a sacrifice-recognition war medal? Perhaps get I ACHIEVE emblazoned across your proud chest?

Thank you for asking that question! I don’t know the answer, but the professor does! Let’s pause this lecture three minutes. Four hundred people would love to wait! Better – they’d love to hear your voice! Asking such intelligent things! That are only tangentially relevant to the topic at hand! Oh how we respect you now—behold, what a brain!

Cry, boy! Cry.

SMS

Kid, I haven’t been telling you why because excuses are lame. Suffice to say there simply hasn’t been a single spare minute or a lonely gram of extra energy in me for the past two weeks, and I know the same applies to Lara. Twenty-five hours doesn’t fit nicely into twenty-four. This past week has been bloody rough, we’ve both been going non-stop, and you’re right – we are failing at it, and that hurts. It burns. But it’s supposed to be a fun thing, not yet another brutal task to tick off from an ever-replenishing To-Do list. 

Can't

What is writer’s block? It’s the word “can’t”. It’s an illness with an unsure cure and unknown duration. It attacks with shearing, furious, unsympathetic criticism; a single word can’t be scribbled before it’s irrelevant or stupid. No idea can ripen without rotting. Everything reeks. Your words reek. You reek. The olfactory offensive engulfs and overwhelms. The spot cannot be cleaned off by force, and you hate myself for being so unable. So feeble. You hit the wall at the 25^th mile and simply can’t go on.

 

Stupid metaphor. What would I know about running? I write. Badly. Just forget it.

A Letter

To dear Reverend,

            I don’t know I’m sure I know how to say it, but when you speak like this morning it raises up some questions in me. Like how come you know these things? Like how come I didn’t know them too? You say when God looks down he sees me and he can know me just like that. Well that doesn’t make too much sense first off. And the other hand what you say about mercy, love and all sounds silly to me but maybe I’m interested in it anyway, on my own account.

                                                            Your friend,

                                                            Amen,

                                                            Carlton

Verbatim...almost

Christina: You sound awful.

Laura: I’m sick.

Christina: That’s not good. Want Echinacea tea?

Laura: What does it taste like?

Christina: Eucalyptus.

Laura: Oh, no I don’t like that.

Christina: Yeah, it tastes like ass.

Laura: Do you have ginger tea?

Christina: Yeah. We have gingersnaps and gingerale, too.

Laura:  Don’t like it. Well, no, I like it, but only on planes.

Christina: But, it’s good for sickness. Tastes good…

Laura: I only like it on planes!

Christina: Just take the gingerale!

Laura: I don’t want your damn gingerale!

Christina: Yeah, I figured. I just have so much damn gingerale.  

A Successful Expedition

            They landed on the planet and for the first time, found water. The crew was very happy. They had a water fight. The next day they looked for signs of life. While they were doing that, some aliens stole their spaceship. They sat in the water and cried. The aliens flew around their heads in the spaceship. Then the aliens landed and they were nice. Everyone got along fine. One of the spacemen and one of the aliens fell in love. The other spacemen taught some other aliens to play basketball. A successful expedition. All good on the interplanetary frontier.

Wandering

            I was there when my mother died and I was there when my father died. They both said the same thing to me: “I love you.”

            And then I was alone. My life was the same; friends, job, apartment, fish tank. But I found myself looking for something I hadn’t noticed I’d wanted before. In libraries, in bars, on mountaintops. I told people everything about my life; sometimes I listened to theirs. It was an instinct, a downward movement in my chest and arteries. My parents’ love had been in my existence my entire life, and now it was gone.

I'll have what she's having

I want intertwining vines of delight—nimble and light, their fibrous arms entangled in ecstasy. Give me burgundy-ribbed running down a porcelain canvas. I want succulent vesicles that ooze with passion when I sink my fangs into their fleshy red skin. Let me nibble delicate silk and crunch porous ornaments. I want musty pungence—bulbous brown earthiness caps of frailty and folly. Give me hard slivers of cracked richness, and desiccated kernels that yearn for the moisture of mouths. I want languid morsels of milk—salty and tangy, creamy and smooth, a blissful divergence upon my tongue. Bleed balsamic for me, baby.

Your name here

Oy

Kid was it you in that shiny car, with the sky on your face and sun through your hair as outside the crisp wind sheared through my topaz pantaloons, I pedaling up the street on my rusty steed, and you California-rolling across the corner bend, and us locking gaze for a moment, for a breath, a warm breath, followed by a smile, a hot blush-worthy smile, shared, and then I pedaled on but my heart leapt at you and its tendrils grasped onto your heart’s as you pushed your pedal on this fine morning?

Or was it someone else?

I Hate Formatting

OK, you'll just have to imagine "The Great Pyramid":

It is a pyramid made of "Good." repeated 100 times. It is nice and symmetrical and triangle shaped. That's all, nothing like the stupid way blogger posted what I worked so hard on.

Catch Up Time

Hey everyone, I was out of touch with the mighty internet this weekend. Fortunately I survived, and here are the things I wrote on a piece of paper:

Thursday, February 5

"Poem"

The best way I know to articulate it,

Is like this:

Here I am

And maybe you all are too. 

I think about bank accounts

And grass

And Coca-Cola and dinosaurs

And talk about them

And think some more

So I become them.

I, me, myself...become them.

Sometime when I see an ocean

Or a funny smile

I arrive at a peephole

And a moment is whispered

Where the cokes and dinos are nothing

And therefore I am nothing.

I, me, myself...nothing.

And yet

Somehow, someway

In that nothing moment

I don't need to expand

Because I am everything then.

Friday, February 6

"In A Hotel Room"

        I saw, on a table, a mayonnaise pack and a ketchup pack, slightly rubbing up against each other. They were two of the lucky few left over from a burger dinner, and I could tell they wanted to celebrate. But they were in such an open, flat environment that they merely laid there, content to brush serrated edges until I turned the single bulb lamp off above the table and shut myself in the bedroom for the night. Yes, I would sleep alone again, my arm across my other pillow, while the packets of condiments enjoyed themselves on the table.

Saturday, February 7

"The Great Pyramid"

Good.

  Good. Good.

    Good. Good. Good.

      Good. Good. Good. Good.

Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

  Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

    Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

      Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

  Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

    Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

      Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

  Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good. Good.

Sunday, February 8

"The Stars"

      He said he was a nowhere man, on a nowhere sidewalk.

      I said no, I only want to know which way is Caesar's Palace.

      He pointed at the carpet of blinking lights above our heads and said, see all the stars, everywhere around us? They will show you the way.

      I was impatient but intrigued and said, where do they tell you to go?

      A woman walked past us through the darkened double doors, putting a blackjack dealer's shirt over her gaudy and stretched hooker's tank top. He said, wherever I haven't yet been.

      I asked someone else for directions.

ça ne fait rien (nevermind)

« Je ne sais pas qu’est ce qu’il faut dire. Ce n’est pas toi, c’est moi. Oui, je sais. C’est le plus grand cliché que je pouvais dire, mais c’est la vérité. Il n’y a personne.  Je suis si désolée, mais au même temps, tu as du le voir venir. Je me demande quand même, pourquoi ce que c’était si plein de promis a dû si pourri.  Bon. Peut-être nous pouvons rester amis ?»

«Wow that’s quite a mouthful, dear. What are you saying?»

«Oh, I was just talking about how much I'm enjoying these French classes.»

« Well, it sounds very romantic. »

Philosophy

What do you think you’re doing?

…Making eggs.

Um, no. You’re scrambling.

That’s how you make eggs, dumbass.

I wanted eggs. Not a scramble.

Are you serious?

Completely. When I say eggs, I expect the goddamn sunny side!

Too late. The pan is hot.

I refuse to eat those non-eggs.

This is the eggiest you’ll ever see these eggs.

Nope. You’ve completely annihilated their inherent eggness.

I think you need to think outside the egg a little.

Har har, har.

Can you please just eat them? Such a waste.

Maybe you should think about what “eggs” really means next time.

Perseverance (how meta)

He’d been walking just six hours, yet the soles of his shoes were already as tattered as his defeated spirit.

I do wonder what life would be like as a bottle of grape soda; I suppose not too disagreeable… as long as one liked grape soda.

She fell.

Pixel by pixel, the entire world in front of him was collapsed onto a two-inch screen.

“You like me,” she said, “but I like men.”

Eating had never been one of Jennifer’s strongest skills.

Oy Angelo, come dance with us! You love this song! Just leave your bag there -- Come on!

Next.

Tomorrow

This too shall pass. And all will be well tomorrow. It will be a new day, and imagine all that can happen in just one day. We’ll all say goodbye, and it will hurt, then it will heal, then we’ll smile at the memories. No gain without the pain, my loves. Smile and endure. Only the fool wears her heart on her sleeve, because the heart is never the same, always changing, and one wouldn’t want to give a momentary impression only. There are forces more enduring than that. Pumping in blood, holding just a beat, and a new wave pours in, with a new revelation, a new idea, new air. But remember. What makes it crisp and fresh is the sweet aging scent of what came before still lingering in the corners.

An Unfortunate Realization

He woke up one morning and hated all of it.
Threw the covers off the bed.
Picked the books off the shelves one by one and read the backs.
None of it mattered anymore. He’d made it and none of it mattered.
None of it was ever interesting anyway. All part of some struggle to get to some top of some thing. Some ugly thing that now he came face to face with. He saw his life expanding before his eyes. A life at the top of this ugly thing. And he hated all of it. And knew that the thing had got him. And the remnants of his swallowed soul knew it too. He could hear them scream with rage.

Slumber Party Time

Slumber party time!

My place – you’re invited!

My big brother can start the fire,

We’ll make S’mores!

Until we’re ill!

 

Then we’ll purge and tell stories!

Like when I told Peter I liked him,

And he said,

You’re an ugly freak!

 

And when it gets late we’ll do dares!

Eat strawberries with a steak knife!

Put skewers under your fingernails!

 

And when the sun rises,

You’ll be asleep,

I won’t! I’ll be watching you!

The way the breath falls from your parted lips

Tenderly!

 

We can laugh! Scream!

My parent’s won’t mind,

They’re never there!

No one will hear!

 

 

 

 

 

Full Glass.

Criticism is beautiful. It’s helpful, refining, and well intentioned. Without it there could be no improvement; the piece would rot and ruin. A coconut left in the sun until its water turns rank and skin shrivels crisp. Criticism doesn’t hurt. It can’t hurt. Something so necessary can’t possibly feel painful. It can’t cut, it can’t bleed, and it certainly can’t scrub salt deep into contusions. Criticism is constructive. Always. It is good. Good.

 

Your work is shallow and pathetic, petty and clichéd, incorrect and inconsiderate, devoid of even simple meaning, and an insulting waste of time.

 

In a good way…? 

I'd Say

I’d say I’m gloriously mediocre.

Solidly average.

I go just the way for other people,

And they usually do the same.

 

Things are always enough.

I’m never thirsty or hungry.

But I like my meat done medium.

I’d say I’m passionately apathetic.

 

I’d say I’m contently unfulfilled.

It was always too hot or too cold, anyway.

And the insistence was extreme.

So now, I’d say I’m perceptively numb.

 

Sometimes, I dream about lying on my bed,

Looking up at the ceiling.

Then I wake up, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.

And I’d say I’m extraordinarily satisfied,

…more or less

This Valentine's Day...

Want a foolproof way how to tell if that special someone is into you? Go bowling. Yep, that simple. There are more signs in those long glow-in-the-dark alleys than driving in a school zone. 

How, you ask? Well, for starters go with a bunch of people, and then it’s pretty straightforward.

After your gal/guy goes up to bowl, they will whip around, share a celebratory expression or embarrassing “oops” with one person. Who is that one person?

If it's you, you can drop the balls and slip and slide down that golden alley. If not, return the shoes.

Dear Daddy Hitler

Oh the false dictatorship of the naively domineering parent.
Sort of adorably disgusting. The would-be oppressor bent over his desk 1,000 miles away, mapping his daughter’s study schedule, exercise routine, social encounters. Enforcing his decrees with the iron fist of finance.
I will take away your credit card.
Your car.
Your tuition.

Get. A life.

Oh dear mother. If you only knew.
Your darling daughter. Up to say play tennis with the girls and paint lovely nails and shmooze with the gentry and study study study those books.

Haha what a joke. Your daughter’s a rebel. She has you completely fooled. The situation is pathetic. If you only knew.

The Street Corner Preacher

            “I’m packin’ up! Gettin’ ready to go!” a man yelled from atop a trash barrel. Swirls of people glanced at his knees as they marched past, wrapped in faded winter coats.

            “When my Jesus shows his face, the whole world’s gonna change!”

            A little girl stopped and stared up until he noticed her. He crouched and smiled; he was missing a tooth.

            “The whole world?” she asked.

            “As different as night from day,” he said softly.

            “What’s night?” Then she smiled, waved, and disappeared.

            When he stood back up, he could see little girls everywhere, wandering through the peopled streets.

Spoken fast and honestly.

Hi my name is Albert. People and places scare me lots. Sometimes I need to crush all the crinkly autumn leaves or else a misfired bullet will thwack me in the thigh. Sometimes I can’t make eye contact because everyone wants to stab me when I turn away. I don’t have friends they give up. I know my actions are irrational I know these things won’t happen. But if someone told you breathing was just an illusion and no one else did it and you didn’t need to and you shouldn’t do it would you stop, could you stop?

Cerumen

In. Out. In. In. Out.

That’s it. Just like that. Sometimes I think she used me just because it feels so damn good, the way I just scratch that itch, so deep inside where no one else can reach. Although, too much can cause pain, maybe even to the brain. Once a week is healthy, I think. Nevertheless, I felt used, dirty, and dispensable after the whole process. I’m coated in god knows what substance, and I’m sure I left remnants of me in her.  

And now I’m here, lying next to the tissues. They feel equally filthy and used. 

Autonoesis

She lived in the present. Her self-image was now. Those faded Kodak moments in high gloss seemed distant; more like a recounted dream than a personal past.

First funny-bone bruise.

First kiss.

Second kiss.

Learning stick.

It was ‘her’, but it wasn’t her, for she existed only now. A peep in her vanity exposed that second her staring back, somewhere behind the tiny quicksilver sheet. Unreachable. Detached. Removed. She lifted the mirror close, watched her draw in her breath, fell into her eye, through the iris, past the pupil—black, drowning pupil— to her mind—and for a moment… she was one.

A Very Unfulfilling Story

            The son steps off the school bus. His mother is weeding.

            “Hi mom.”

            “Got pop tarts today, on the counter.”

            The father comes outside.

            “Hi son.”

            “Hey dad.”

            The son goes inside.

            “This a weed?”

            “Don’t pull that!”

            “Guess I’ll stick to getting the mail.”

            The son sticks his head out the door.

            “There’s only broccoli on the counter!”

            “Oops! Thought that’s what pop tarts looked like!”

            The door shuts.

            “Visa bill came. Letter from the Jordans.”

            “Two strikes for the mailbox.”

            “How bout this home run – the latest Sports Illustrated.”

            “Woohoo.”

            A propeller plane flies over.

            “Ah, summer.”

The Cool Kids

Cindy likes Mike who likes Sarah who’s going out with Jake. But one weekend, Jake got super drunk and hooked up with someone. Cindy showed up on Monday with a hickey, so Sarah started freaking out. So then Andy told Mike to go in for the kill, but Mike didn’t feel like that was right. And meanwhile, everyone was talking about Cindy’s mystery boy and the resultant love bite. Mike started thinking maybe Cindy was pretty hot. Sarah still wasn’t talking to Jake, but on Tuesday he brought her flowers and she kissed him. 

They all failed chemistry. Even Andy. 

Influenced by George Saunders

            “Hal, we gotta Operate!”

            “Waddaya mean Operate?”

            “The man’s intestines are where the throat should be! We gotta Operate!”

            “Well lemme take a look at ‘im. Carl, this is simple. Laxatives, then a stay in Physical Reorientation, and he’ll be fine. Operation, huh!”

            “OK, Hal, that’s a load of B.S. and you know it. If this ain’t an Operation, I ain’t a doctor.”

            “Sheez Carl, remember last time?”

            “Hal, we’re paid to do this. So what if we F up a few times, we’re getting the bacon. And if we don’t, this guy’s gonna be digesting bacon in his throat!”

Precocious

One day I’ll cut my hair, I guess. And one day the roots will grow out, and it’ll all fade to brown again. The last plates of darkness on my nails will chip off, grow out, get chewed off. I’ll yearn for looser garments of woven materials not invented by a prospector named Levi, belts unadorned with foreign metals, shoes without encircled stars capping my ankles. I’ll look up, not down. I’ll dance hard, not soft. I’ll stop writing in you. I’ll realize what a caricature I am. But not now, not yet— How can I? No one gets me.

A Plea for V

What do you do when you look back at the whole thing and any and every connection you ever made was based on how far along it would get you in life? Would you attempt to smooth those awry spikes out, finesse their tips to soften your departure? Would you realise it’s time to say sorry, not necessarily to someone, but for all the kinked links you created along the way. Or would you stay stuck in the miry muck of debilitating denial until the crab crawls and claws its way to your demise?

Please don’t. We can’t watch anymore.

is?

Life is fast and often automatic. Input words derive output speech and actions requiring doing get done. With little pause a moment collapses— and that is okay for they all surely must, but sometimes it would be nice if they halted halfway and said, “Look at me, I am yours.” Staring down into a dripping porcelain bowl with dull eyes and nimble fingers, bladder releasing, breath incoming, mind relaxing, responsibilities falter and time stops. Being is no longer gears winding gears winding hands, for there is a force pushing them, though hidden behind a face, and it says, “Hi.” I.

The City

            And when he was finally growing comfortable with the blurring speed of the four-lane highway, the taxi crossed the placid Columbia and the lights of Portland surrounded them. The layers, the levels, the lights everywhere spun his mind, and he could not hold back his face from pressing against the window. Beyond the concrete causeways spiraling away above and behind were great, dark buildings that seemed to connect with the night air somewhere high above. His eyelids felt strange, and he wondered what dream his decision had led him into. Outside, downtown pulsated and shifted like a soloing saxophone. 

In This Brown Paper Bagel Bag Life

I am the blueberry bagel. Sometimes I can get pretty blue, but a lot of the time I’m pretty pompously purple. Gimme cream cheese, fool.

You are the egg bagel. You taste just like plain, but that yellow tinge gives you the oomph that makes you the talk of the bread box.

And sometimes, together, we laugh about the cinnamon one, how it has to be bagged on its own, so that its sprinkles won’t get on our shiny egg-washed exteriors. Lame.

But I guess, in the end, we all get eaten. Except for the onion one. He’s stinky. 

Lovely Procrastination

There is a pile of work two feet high sitting on my desk, but no worries. It will get done. Let’s look at the beautiful day outside our window for awhile, then just lie in bed and check the news. Let’s take a long shower, scramble some eggs, and brew some coffee. And then the room should really be cleaned and dusted. We can stop and admire the shining shelves and photos and all my colorful posters. I’ll tell you the stories behind all of them. Then we can finish that movie we started last night. And watch the sun go down on this beautiful day.

Late Night Nonsense

            Oh the monstrosity of a locked keypad. I punch each number and each number makes a different noise, a slightly different pitch. I make melodies and hum harmonies on the keypad, but the lock never clicks. Such a simple combination standing between me and the all the things behind the door, and I am left guessing, punching in random numbers like any chimpanzee could do. Why can’t I get in? Can a painted wooden frame three inches thick really stop my path and impair my vision so thoroughly? Each pattern I punch in brings a red light, holding me back.