happy reading

a free preview of my old patreon series that focuses on a boy with ennui who then meets and falls for a monster.
this series is complete. it is available in its entirety on my patreon for only $5.˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

You are twenty-six and back in school, where no one knows you don’t belong. You look nineteen so you fit right in and you do your best to keep it that way, because there’s nothing worse than sticking out. No one knows that you live with another twenty-six year old or that you already have a bachelor’s degree. They know you work at a coffee shop, but not that you’re full-time or that you’re the manager, having worked your way up since your first run through college. You went back to get a new degree - switching from art to psychology, which was a leap you took blind, hoping you’d land on your feet.You’re doing fine. Mostly A’s and B’s. One C, but that was in a required philosophy course that you sort of brushed off. Not because you didn’t like it. Not even because you thought it was stupid.It scared you.You couldn’t handle the meaning of life. You couldn’t go through mountains of hypotheses on why you exist. You couldn’t deal with famous thinkers, waxing poetic on what else might be out there. Your doctor referred you to a therapist who referred you to a psychiatrist who finally - finally, after all these years - prescribed you a medication (or four) that helped you stop waxing poetic. They helped you stop thinking. You didn’t want to go to class just to be told you had to think again. Because you don’t just consider things when you think. You panic. Thinking makes you panic. When you start thinking, you don’t stop. You keep thinking until you’re breathing into a paper bag and doing yoga stretches to calm your legs down. That’s why you chose psychology.You want to understand why you can’t think correctly.Of course, you’ve also learned that most psychologists were misogynists and that writing papers in APA format is fucking hard. One professor threatened to report you for plagiarism if you didn’t learn how to cite properly and you knew that at nineteen, you would have been terrified. At twenty-six, you’re just tired. You rolled your eyes and snatched the paper from her, telling her yeah, you’d work on it. She was one of the B classes.You had to do a family tree in that class; you had to go back five generations and you had to ask your mom for a lot of references. She came to the United States from Japan when she was in college and met your dad. They got married right after graduation and you’ve heard tales that he’s a very loving guy, but if it’s true, you’ve never seen it. The last thing you want is for anyone to find out the gay kid in their psychology classes has daddy issues though, so you keep that pretty close to the chest, too. Just like everything else about your life. Plus, it’s not that your dad doesn’t love you. He just doesn’t like you very much. In any case, your mom is very proud of you for going back to school for such a practical degree. Your dad is just exasperated you didn’t do that in the first place. What good is an art degree, he asks constantly. Especially if you’re still just working at the coffee place. He doesn’t remember the name. All he remembers is the time you redrew a photo of him and your mom on their wedding day in vine charcoal for a final project and gifted it to them on their anniversary. He remembers it because it was weird, he says. Your mom framed it and put it on the mantel.Your roommate Jenni is the last link you have to college run number one; you two met in an intro to art class and she wasn’t just a good artist, she was the kind of person that really intimidated you in a good way. The kind of person you wanted to be around. The kind of person you wanted to be like. She took good criticism well but met stupid critiques with eye rolls and dismissive hand waves. She knows her worth and builds you up, too. She’s your best friend and you desperately need her around to keep you sane. She calms you down and keeps you level. She also likes to party still, just like you do. Everyone else you met back then has settled down already. They can’t stay out late on a Friday night because they’re tired from the work week. You get it, you just aren’t like that. You and Jenni will go out every few weekends to hit on men all night and if one of you strikes out, both of you strike out. You either bring home two guys or none. Or more. And when it’s none, you spend the night eating ice cream out of the carton and watching a movie until you pass out in the living room.But some nights, you have heart-to-hearts. And that’s why Jenni knows how much you hate to think.You’ll get onto a tangent. Your thoughts will start to barrel out of control and get away from you. You start to panic. You think and think and think without ever talking about what you think. You just let it fester. This often leads to panic attacks about whether or not there’s something else out there and if it even matters that your dad doesn’t like you very much. Because if there’s something else, if there’s something beyond what you know, beyond what anyone knows, then maybe your little life is so insignificant that it doesn’t matter what you do. It doesn’t matter who does or doesn’t love you. In the grand scheme of things, life doesn’t matter if there’s something more after it. You don’t necessarily know if you care about there being life after death as much as you care about there being anything out there at all. Another universe. Well, of course there are other universes, but maybe other dimensions. Other life. Even here on Earth, what if ghosts are real? What if your grandmother is still wandering around, still watching over you? You hate that thought though because then she knows when you’re taking a shit and that makes you feel weird. That’s something she doesn’t need to see.You’ve gotten better at recognizing those tangents, but they still happen, even on medication. Because anxiety doesn’t really leave you, not fully. You’re always going to have trouble thinking. Your brain is always going to run itself out of control, until it feels like it might catch fire and explode. All your doctors have tried to give you something to contain that. But no pill is going to truly cure it. The only thing that could cure it probably doesn’t exist.It certainly doesn’t exist in an abandoned nursing home off the highway. It certainly doesn’t happen to be corporeal, to have a thought process itself and the power of speech. It certainly doesn’t care that you exist, at least. If it did - if the cure to your problems was real - it wouldn’t care about you. It would never fall in love with you. It would never change its lifestyle, uproot its entire existence, alter its core being just for you.Or maybe it would. But you wouldn’t know. Because you haven’t met him yet.

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this is the first chapter of shooting stars and satellites, which as of right now is no longer available for purchase as i move sites. it may be available again soon.˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

i. from cil.Taking the back roads was meant to be an act of genius, but there’s a tree down blocking the street and the cars are backed up on the usually solitary stretch of pavement. Cil doesn’t drive himself often, so this is especially frustrating, as there’s no one else in the car to complain to. All alone. Only his frustration is there to keep him company.Not that there’s much to complain about. A tree fell down, they’re working to get it out of the way now. There’s nothing to be done other than what they’re doing, so Cil puts his car in park and waits until it’s his turn to move again. They’ve got the debris cleared from one lane, so they’re filtering cars back and forth and Cil simply has to call the office to let them know he’ll be late and to push his conference call back an hour.“There’s nothing to be done,” he says to his secretary. “I’m completely stuck.”“Can’t you just turn around?”Cil is annoyed because yes, he could, and he probably should have, but he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? And now it’s almost his turn to go, once the people on his right are clear. So turning around now would be pointless.“It’s all blocked,” he lies. “Lots of trees.”“How did you get to where you are in the first place if it’s blocked by trees?”“I gotta go.” Cil hangs up quickly before he can bury himself deeper. His employees aren’t afraid of him. They aren’t afraid to ask questions and get details. He prefers it that way, except for in these cases, when he’d rather their suspicions go unremarked.He watches as his phone buzzes with emails in the cupholder - he has a dedicated phone holder on his windshield but never takes the time to actually clip his phone in it - and inches ever closer to his goal. Very slowly. So slowly, like an itch he can’t scratch. All he wants is to get to work for a very stressful day. He just wants to be overstretched at work, rather than in the car all alone.And finally, it’s his turn. He waited like the patient man he is and now he gets to go. It’s his moment of glory as he gives a big grin to the police officer waving him on, and everything is perfect, so of course the back of his car suddenly swerves sideways, sending him careening into a skid. He can only imagine the look on his face as he slides, watching the officer run for his life as two tons of metal come screeching towards him. It’s probably a mix between bewilderment and acceptance. He’s already accepted it. He’s already accepted he’s getting in a fender bender today, because that’s just how the morning is shaping up. That’s just how it is, sometimes.He ends up completely backwards, facing the car that’s just given him months of financial headaches and insurance paperwork. Car accidents are such a hassle, which is why Cil tries to find himself in them rarely, as he imagines most people do. But this driver seems to have a different mindset, if the appearance of his shoddy car has anything to say for him. It’s a beat up clunker from 1901, probably one of the first to come off the assembly line. Which is fine - everyone lives within their means, except this car looks like it’s also been in a few wrecks. Maybe the dents and scratches are from a previous driver, but Cil doubts it. He tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before he knows he has to get out of his car. There’s a thump of the other driver slamming his door closed, and he’s shouting something before Cil can finish his breath.“The food was slipping and my foot came off the brake!”Cil looks in his side mirror. He can’t quite see the man yet, but he’s shouting as if Cil has done something wrong. As if he’s the angry one, when Cil imagines he should be quite apologetic. Cil isn’t very mad himself - Cil doesn’t really get mad - but he is inconvenienced further, which is beginning to really get on his nerves.He finally reaches for the door handle and opens the car door, unsure where the grace he’s exiting his vehicle with is coming from. Maybe it’s because his suit was just pressed so he knows his slacks look great. Not that the guy in front of him will care.Cil’s eyes go wide. It’s like a movie. Or a TV show. Or a book. Or something fictional; it certainly can’t be real life. Someone this beautiful can’t have just inserted himself into Cil’s life with no option of escape. Cil bites down on his bottom lip hard for a few seconds and furrows his brows in confusion as he looks down at the other man - or kid, maybe, is a better term for him. He looks to be in his twenties, just a few years younger than Cil, but he’s short, around five-foot-four, and has messy hair flying all around his face. It’s a nice, deep auburn and could probably just barely be pulled back into a ponytail. A small one. A small ponytail, just barely dipping down into the collar of his t-shirt.“I, uh-”“I’m sorry,” he says as if he’s simply following instructions. Social instructions. If you hit someone, you apologize. “It’s just - I have a delivery and it started slipping everywhere and when I went to catch it my foot came off the brake and I hit down on the gas instead.”Cil isn’t sure what to say. The kid is clearly frazzled, but scowling still, as if this isn’t his own doing. And Cil supposes it’s not exactly, he didn’t mean to hit Cil’s Aston Martin. If he’d meant to hit anyone, it would not have been the person whose car reaches into the millions. Especially when it looks like his car reaches into the tens.“I need to get this delivered,” he urges. “Can I please just give you my number and - what kind of car is that?”“Aston Martin.”The kid’s eyes go wide.“What?” he cries. “I can’t pay for that!”“Do you have car insurance?”“Yeah, but I can’t pay for that!”“Just making sure you had insurance at all.”“Yeah, yeah, I’m poor, I get it. My car sucks and I can’t hold down a relationship or whatever, I know.”“I - what? I wasn’t sayi-”“I’m telling you right now, I have to go but I can’t afford to fix your car. I’ll have to take out a loan and I’ll go into debt which I guess is what’s going to happen but just so you know, you’re not getting the money to fix this anytime soon. Not that you’d need it, but…”“Look,” Cil says, trying to calm the beautiful human in front of him down. There’s something about an attractive person getting wild that makes Cil flustered. “I’m in a rush, too. Let’s just exchange numbers and I’ll call you later. Don’t worry about anything for right now. It wasn’t that hard of a hit, both our cars are still working. So let’s just deal with it later.”The kid regards him curiously, as if he doesn’t trust him. Cil gets that a lot. Nice people can’t ever be trusted. There must be a hidden agenda. But Cil doesn’t have one right now, other than to get this guy’s number at all.“Really?”“Yes,” Cil says, reaching into his pocket but realizing he left his phone in the car. “Do you have your phone?”The kid takes it out of his pocket and punches Cil’s number in. They both hear it ringing from his car and shake hands, the entire exchange lasting about four minutes. They go back to their cars quietly but then the kid shouts out behind him:“Hey, wait!”Cil turns.“Yeah?”“What’s your name?”“Cecil,” he says. “But - but call me Cil.”“Alright,” he mumbles, turning back to his phone. He must be putting Cil into his contacts. Cil licks his lips. He supposes he should get the kid’s name, too.“What’s yours?”“Yale.”Cil blinks.“Y-Yale? Like the school?”“My mom just liked the way it sounded,” he says, rehearsed. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Call me when you get home from work, okay?”Cil nods and finally gets back in his car, allowing Yale to back out first and waving at him as he drives past and off down the opposite road. He watches him go before another car honks at him to get a move on and he does, stepping down on the gas a bit too hard and lunging forward. He laughs to himself and backs up slowly again, finally getting back onto the right street, passing the evergreen downed on the road, and wondering if it’s a sign that he studied at Harvard.

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this is the first chapter of standing on the horizon, which as of right now is no longer available for purchase as i move sites. it may be available again soon.˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

i. from cil.The baristas at Bean and Leaf have gotten to know Cil even better than they already did, because every Saturday from eight a.m. to nine a.m. he shows up to order tea for himself and a coffee for the scraggly boy who follows him in a few minutes later. They know his name is Cecil and that the scraggly boy likes exactly four creams and four sugars in his coffee. They also know they’re grateful to be dealing with Cil rather than the scraggly one; he seems a little volatile. They must also know they’re dating because Cil sits far too close to Yale to be his friend. Plus, friends tend not to kiss on the lips when they say goodbye.Cil is more tortured this morning than others because he knows he has plans with a partnering firm at nine-thirty, but Yale comes in wearing ripped, black jeans that hug his legs impossibly tight and a red t-shirt that matches the spiked bracelet on his left hand. His hair is getting even longer - just barely missing the tops of his shoulder - and Cil knows now this is less a conscious stylistic choice and more that Yale has leftover habits from making no money, foregoing haircuts being one of them. Cil has offered to pay for him to go to a salon but Yale always looks at him flatly and says, “That’s a little too gay, even for me.”So Yale sits down with his long hair and spiky bangles and looks up at Cil from beneath his bangs with a grin as he takes his coffee from him. It’s the smile that makes Cil lose it. It’s the smile that he’s in love with.“You would be a cute barista.”“You’ve said that before,” Yale says before taking a sip of his still very hot coffee. “Twice now.”“It’s really true though.”“Thank you.”“Get an apron and bean grinder so we can roleplay it.”“Sure,” Yale shrugs, eyes darting toward the cash register. “I’ll just steal them from here.”“You sure steal a lot of things.”Yale bristles at the accusation.“Hey, I only stole one box of cold medicine and that’s because I hadn’t factored it into my budget since I wasn’t planning on getting sick and it was like, ten years ago, s-”“Sorry,” Cil laughs. “I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to justify it to me.”“The only other thing I’ve ever stolen is your heart.”Cil wants desperately to say it. Every time Yale makes a sarcastic little comment like that. Every time Yale frowns or scowls or looks at Cil like he’s done something wrong. Every time Yale walks in wearing jeans that cling to him like they’re painted on. Cil desperately wants to say it.But Yale has mentioned it before: he doesn’t say it easily. And he doesn’t want it said to him, either. It’s a major step for him. Cil doesn’t know his dating history that well; they’ve only been together for about seven months, so there’s still a lot about each other they’re learning. And the thing Cil has learned most recently about Yale is that he doesn’t like to say I love you until he knows the relationship is secure.But Cil doesn’t know what else he could do to prove to Yale that it is.Everything else is going well, if not surprisingly exceptional. Work is fine. The meeting later today is about finalizing a partnership between Cil’s firm and the one across the street - the one he reached out to one night seven months ago because he was so stressed about not receiving a call from a very cute guy that he made extra work for himself to stay distracted. Yale doesn’t know one of the most major accomplishments in Cil’s work life is indirectly because of him, because Cil doesn’t want him to know. Cil doesn’t think he’d handle it well. Or maybe he’d find it hilarious. Cil can’t always tell with Yale.More importantly, he contacted his mother a few months ago and started the long, arduous process of reconnecting. He resents still that he had to make the first move, seeing as the ball was always in her court, but he couldn’t stand the idea that she was getting older and it had been ten years since they’d spoken. He’d left his hometown and come to the city just to get away from her, and here he is now, crawling back. But that’s okay. He’s standing his ground, even against her most brutal comments. She still doesn’t accept him as trans, but Cil refuses to back down. And sometimes it’s nice just to hear her voice again. It’s still comforting. She’s still his mother.Yale never knows what to say about that situation. He listens when Cil rambles and rants, gives thoughtful responses, but they’re never advice and they’re never of much substance. He mostly says, “I’m sorry you have to go through that,” or, “No mom should be like that to their kid.” It’s helpful, though. Knowing that Yale’s mother is the opposite means it’s possible. Some mothers can support their kid, no matter what. Cil’s mother just has to get there.Which brings up the point that he and Yale are so wild about each other that Cil has already met Yale’s mother - which isn’t that surprising, seeing as she’s the most important person in Yale’s life. They met over dinner at her house and she and Yale moved together so fluidly, in a way Cil never did with his mother, even on their best days together in his childhood. It might have been that night that Cil first realized he was in love. That was the night he first wanted to say it.But he didn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Everything between them is fine - perfect, even - except for those three little words.Yale is in front of the window, the horizon line sitting behind him and the sun beaming in around his head, giving him a halo-like effect. It’s fitting, since he really is like an angel to Cil.

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this is the first chapter of songs yet to be sung, which as of right now is no longer available for purchase as i move sites. it may be available again soon.˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

i. from cil.“This never gets old.”“Are you being sarcastic?”Yale frowns, seemingly hurt by Cil’s accusation and Cil wonders if he should backtrack or try to ride this one out.“Why would I be sarcastic about that?”“I don’t know, because we come to the same place on the same day and sit at the same table.”“We don’t always get the same drink.”“I do.”“Well, I don’t,” Yale says, narrowing his eyes at Cil, who lets a smile break out on his face.“Yeah, you started getting those flavored drinks that cost like, four times as much as regular coffee.”“I’m worth it,” Yale says, looking away demurely and taking another sip of his iced cinnamon almondmilk macchiato or whatever it is. Cil isn’t making fun of it, he just genuinely doesn’t know what it’s called. He looked at Yale a little dumbly when he’d ordered it. He hadn’t expected it to keep going on as long as it did.“I love that there’s no argument,” Cil says finally. “You just tell me you’re worth it.”“Why would I need to argue, I already know I’m right.” That isn’t a question, either. His voice is deep and dismissive which makes Cil’s heart race. He really, really loves his boyfriend.“I love you.”“I love you, too.”Their one year anniversary came and went. Cil took Yale to their favorite fancy place and they ordered a romantic pre-fixed menu for two under candlelight, their favorite waiter congratulating them and their least favorite waiter - the one who flirts with Yale right in front of Cil, like he isn’t there, like he’s just some sap who sits there and watches his boyfriend get hit on - looked on angrily from afar. Yale swears Cil is full of it but if Yale is jealous of Logan, Cil can be jealous of this guy. The point is, once they started saying, “I love you,” they never stopped. Cil still thinks he’s going to wear it out eventually - not that it’s going to get old, but that Yale is going to get sick of him saying it - but so far, so good. Yale swears he isn’t tired of hearing it and he isn’t tired of saying it, either.But that’s about the last big step they took. There’s been very little talk of moving in together and though Cil has gotten quite close to Yale’s mother, he’s never introduced Yale to his own. He’s never even introduced him to his father, who he actually gets along with. His mother is going to be a real feat. Though they’ve been talking again, they still don’t quite cooperate well with each other. She still doesn’t accept Cil as a son even though no one else has mistaken him for a girl in years. She can’t quite wrap her head around him being gay either, not because she doesn’t accept homosexuality, but because she just wants a straight daughter. That’s the thing - she has no problem with gay people. It’s trans people she doesn’t like.In any case, Yale hasn’t met her. And he’s not going to any time soon. But there’s no reason Cil hasn’t introduced him to his father, other than he’s nervous. He’s scared. He’s worried that once he does, it’ll end. There’s no good reasoning for that, other than it’s another big step and there’s always a chance that big steps will scare someone like Yale off.He feels bad for thinking that way. He holds Yale in very high regard. Yale wouldn’t react that way. He wants to be serious with Cil. Cil has to remember that.“I was thinking maybe sometime soon we could have dinner with my dad,” Cil says. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”“Really?” Yale asks, genuinely peaked.“Yeah. I worry that if you meet him, it’ll start to feel too serious and you’ll want out.”Yale frowns, this time much softer and more seriously than the first time. They promised to communicate better. This is Cil communicating his worries, and that’s Yale being grateful but confused.“Why would I want out?”“It doesn’t make sense,” Cil says. “It isn’t logical. It’s just how I feel.”“Yeah,” Yale nods. “I know. I get it. I’d like to meet him.”“Maybe,” Cill says, sitting back in his seat anxiously. He doesn’t know why he brought it up. He wants to communicate better. Sometimes that means not communicating when he isn’t ready. He shouldn’t mention every little thought that pops into his head. “I don’t know. I only brought it up because I got scared.”“Scared?”“Scared you’d wanna leave. I was just making sure you wouldn’t want to leave me if I brought it up.”“You panic too much,” Yale says with a smile, reaching out to grab his hand and squeeze it. It does calm Cil down. “I move slow but I don’t stop.”“That doesn’t really make any sense.”“I - I know. I just meant… I might be hotheaded. And a little unpredictable. But I don’t just - I won’t just bail. And I’m only hotheaded and unpredictable because you say so.”“No, you’re hotheaded and unpredictable,” Cil grins. “Because you are.”“I’m not unpredictable,” he counters. “Do you get stressed out that I’m going to do something you aren’t expecting?”“Sometimes.”“Ugh,” Yale says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. Cil is saddened by the loss of warmth when he takes his hand away. “Why?”“Because I love you enough that I worry,” he says. “I haven’t ever really dated someone this long this seriously. What if I do something wrong?”“Like what?”Cil is worried and he does care, but Yale is right. Cil can’t really come up with anything he’d realistically mistake as acceptable when it isn’t. He’s not socially inept. He’s just a nervous guy. A nervous, love-stricken guy.“What if I threw up on myself in public?”“What?”“And then I like, bent over to throw up more and my pants ripped?”“Stop it,” Yale says, rolling his eyes and taking another sip of his coffee.“What if I fart on a date?”“You already fart on dates.”“I’ve never farted on a date. Not loud enough for you to hear.”“Well, I’ve heard you fart. I’ve never heard you talk like this, though. You hate putting unflattering images of you in my head.”“Well now that I realize I want us to make it, I need to start preparing you for the inevitable.”“Do you throw up on yourself a lot?”“No, just once.”“Once?”“I had stomach flu.”“That doesn’t count then,” Yale says. “I threw up on vacation last year. You had to hold my hair back.”Cil remembers. He also looks at the small ponytail Yale’s hair is in right now and remembers how beautiful his boyfriend is. He remembers how he’s the only person he’s ever been able to sit with in complete silence and not feel uncomfortable. Yale comes so easy to him that he actually likes the silence.“I’d do it again,” he says dreamily. “I’ll always hold your hair back.”“Romantic,” Yale says. “And yes, that time it was sarcasm.”

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a poem from college written for an in-class assignment for a metro arts transit writing contest. the formatting has been lost but what can you do?
jan 29, 2009˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

157 to I-270 at night--All I need to keep me home are those blurry city lights.I got the high school put behind meand I’m headed to the Arch,and I don’t know who is with me-if a boy is driving the car.A hotel to our left, a forest to our right-All I need to keep me home are those blurry city lights.I know some boys who have seen them,I know one who needs to still,and I know a girl who don’t know me-and probably never will.But no matter who is at the wheel,we’ll just drive on out of sightbecause all I need to keep me home are those blurry city lights.

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a college poem following a numbered format about the stages of my personal experience with a fairly harrowing skin disease.
april 14, 2009˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

i.
Somewhere between like, two and definitely under six, probably even under five
The one memory of my childhood bedroom, my
naked, hairless body, so young with my arms so
spread, laughing like this was normal. My parents
at either end, with Eucerin cream, slathering down
and up my entire three foot frame. This way I can
sleep at night, but I still have to put those weird
oven mitts on so I don’t scratch. The doctor said
the allergy mattress wasn’t enough and it never
would be.ii.
About twelve to eighteen, you know, those most vital years of your life
No one had a crush on me during puberty because
I had those gold wire glasses and my cowlick stuck
up funny, but the one thing everyone said was at
least my face was flawless. I never had those nasty
zits and to this day I can count the ones I had on
one hand. Pale, but beautiful skin. They didn’t know
my elbows were scabbed and my fingers were scales.
Still- those were the golden years of eczema.iii.
Fucking yesterday, like for fucking real, I’m barely even twenty
Hydrocortisone will make the eczema disappear and
shit, it’s a good thing I’ve never wanted kids because
it makes you sterile, too. Benadryl can really take the
pain away, unfortunately it takes all your time away
too because it knocks you out. Vanicream is great for
your face, and you just have to decide whether or not
you’ll take the itch or the burn because when you put
it on, your face feels like the sun the exploded on it.
And I’m so glad the twenty-dollar make up I just bought
is not compatible with my face because that’s a wasted
paycheck, not to mention all those stares in class when
you can’t help but put lotion on your face during lecture.
It’s difficult to ignore your face falling off, but I guess
it’s better than cancer, though at least cancer kills you.

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the first poem of my advanced poetry-writing class in college
jan 21, 2009˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .

Friday- twist tie guy fights,
Uh-SILLY, Polo blue,
a drawer for drawers--
(NO PLAYING CARDS),
and an awkward ‘I love you.’Saturday- ping pong balls,
heart-to-hearts on Couch.
Cigarettes and ‘no-not-yets,’
another ‘I love you.’Sunday- cell phones and igloos,
‘arrogant’ with an ‘e,’
guard rails, plastic cheeseburgers,
“Ow- I hurt my KNEE.”

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