I turned twenty one and
it was your birthday, too.
Kitty, you look high
on being fifteen and
you lay on my bed like your neck is soft
and you’ve got bruises,
although with white fur
I don’t know what we expected.
And I could take you with me to the bars on Friday,
if you still have that fake ID.
We can celebrate my longest relationship,
balanced on my knee,
and the life you live on my white duvet
among pillows, sometimes
or open sheets.
I hope you read my books
because someone has to,
and if you kiss my mother on the cheek
remind her that I love her.
I want to write a poem
but I type “Netflix.com” instead.
You gorged on pasta that was bloody
and meat that was not,
because the meat was really
pinto beans and tofu.
You tricked me with fake chicken once,
which made me want to leave
sixty pounds of pig fat on your bed and couch and countertop.
Sometimes I think about my brain floating
in some sort of Kool-Aid
that hasn’t dissolved all the way.
Grainy particulars of grape and my
fat, floating brain.
I want to pull
out a straw and stick it
in my ear because I’m thirsty and afraid
of purple and also of this:
The astronaut cracked his
space helmet and now
he is going to die.
I couldn’t bear to tell you that the constellations we found were infinite.
I couldn’t bear to tell you that the constellations were not actually there, because everybody that has ever pointed out a constellation was just talking shit.
I couldn’t bear to tell you that you were just talking shit.
I couldn’t beer to tell you that I was out of beer.
But also the sky was like a Crunch bar, and I liked that.
I would have told you about the guy in my class who turned in a selfie for a photo project. Not an artistic, “witty-critique-of-social-media-selfie”, but a photo he took of himself on the bus with the front-facing camera. His lips are kind of puckered. In class, he presented his work: “This represents me being really tired.”
I would have told you about the guy at the gym wearing an Alpha Phi tank top. There has to be a joke there somewhere. (More importantly, I went to the gym!!!!!!)
I would have told you about how I worked out (see above) and ate a whole apple. Half an apple. 10 pieces of candy.
I would have told you about how I played Timbaland on Spotify (not private session) because I hoped you’d see it and tease me. My followers will never take me seriously again.
I would have told you that you’re right, love is selfish. And I decided to stop writing these down.
You have been a most excellent neighbor in the years of our mutual tenancy in this building. You may be surprised to hear this. We fought frequently—you, frustrated at the provocations of love and hate, I, resentful of your calculations.
I’ve written to announce that I am moving several floors down, to the basement room. The lock on my current door gives way easily, and the basement door is sturdy–a thick, glossy affair with dead bolts and chains. I keep getting robbed, you know. You will shake your head as you read this because I always invite them in.
Ah, but they don’t look like thieves then, Brain. You know this. You met several, and gave nods of approval. I would go as far as to say that some of them didn’t mean to steal anything. The absentminded drop of a fork into a pocket. Or the eating of several large meals. I looked at my apartment today where hangings once colored the walls, where forks once filled the top drawer, and realized that I am tired of replacing the artifacts of my life.
This is how it happens: You let a thief in and you get robbed. Then, you stop opening the door for awhile. But a particularly charming thief always manages to wiggle beneath the frame, and his company is, for a time, pleasing and constant. And then you wake up and your apartment is empty of furnishings and you have no forks with which to eat your cereal (spoons have long been out of the question).
The Russian space sex geckos died on their mission
but my heart always says dessert,
like some kind of billionaire
Listening to Mat Kearney’s new album
Can’t tell if
my abs are Halloween ready,
I’m mostly made of cake.
Did the salad even ever exist at all?
Well, enough small talk:
starve a mullet,
like a fun little secret:
just take the stairs.
If it was up to me,
this is a story about love.
You’re just watching porn,
It would make a great ringtone
There’s nothing worse than when a movie ends
just thought i would let you know ;D
Imma make four pies today.
In this Social Security office
without all the sexy pressure of heroin.
Like the person who really needs to catch this bus;
A middle-aged, polo-tucked man whose son made him late for the job that starts at eight, which will make him late for the job that starts at six, and this is most definitely the last straw. Or like the man who has promised to meet her and this is the last bus he can take to get to her, the routes were changed temporarily and he was seconds too late. Like the man who hobbles after a bus driver who doesn’t see him, or doesn’t care, but that bus– it is the thing he needed most, of all the things he doesn’t have. He stares after the bus as it puffs away, loudly, squarely.
That is what you look like.
Does that make sense? Metaphorically, it’s sound. I don’t know if you have a bus like that. I could be projecting onto your dead body, projecting a dim replica of you onto you.
In any case, that is what your eyes look like.
Dear Chihuahuas With Terrible Clothes,
(You just know this is about to get racy and controversial and some people won’t like it!!!) I’m not scared, though, because a chihuahua could never catch me, especially not one in Chihuahua Uggs.
My hope is that when you read this, you will get your act together. This is for you. I am telling you what nobody else has the courage to tell you.
I’m going to say some pretty horrible things, why not, right?!? But don’t worry I’ll throw in a few jokes about myself to make it seem a little less mean! 🙂 Here’s the deal: Your clothes are terrible and they’re making everybody want to throw up so that the blinding smell literally blinds them!! Sure, I know that sometimes it’s “genetic” but I’m not talking to the genetically unfashionable dogs. I’m talking to those of you who wear whatever you want like you have no basic sense of decency or self control. That sweater should be burned–probably with you still inside it!! Jk jk. Look I’m blonde! See? We all do silly stuff 😉
Mostly, you should be feeling pretty bad about yourselves (now would be a good time to start. There’s no time like NOW!). Don’t worry, this is not “dog fashion shaming” because this is about your health and well-being (and DEFINITELY about all the views I’m gonna get, EY OH). I am saving you. I took a Psych class in high school, so this is it, folks: free counseling courtesy of me (with a side of laughs!).
Making fun of you is easy, but comedy is even easier!!! You guys should try it sometime (but not until you start looking better!).