Poetry

You can’t be beautiful in poetry anymore, not serene or
magical, no more song and (or) dance. Nobody’s been lovely
since Neruda, nobody can fall in love or fall in anything
but garbage cans or down rabbit holes or from airplane
emergency exits on your birthday or fiftieth anniversary
of your dead cat’s adoption. You can get hit or shot and now,
even fucked, but we are not electric anymore. Babies can’t die
unless it’s funny, Jesus can only show up if he’s going
on a date with your step-mom’s sister in a Bon Jovi t-shirt
that he bought at Goodwill and your parents’ divorce will never
matter, unless you can tell me about it in one-syllable
words that including letters Q or X. The men who taught me
to write have died, all failed for saying too much. There are no more
bright stars or fair faces (unless they are on clocks), no more
delight because poets know the best things in life are
cliché. I want to tell whoever decided I could not be beautiful
anymore in pure poetic monosyllabic imagery to
shove it up their ass. How’s this for poetry?

Signing Love Notes in My Mother’s Name

“Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.”
-from the History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Mornings aren’t the same without your square jaw lit by
a window and California mornings. The B12 has been doing
things to my dreams, dreams where we talk Freud, where I
remind you of your mother and how we share a birthday
with nothing but silence and the sound of your cigarettes.

In these dreams and the houses inside them, the smoke
of this drug or your cigarettes, I let you build a home
against my breast and that fat part of my upper arm.
And even though my bed turned into mud, it is too much
like a heartbeat, like gaining weight, like how nobody

has sex like we can. Tell me about our drive to Birmingham,
how we couldn’t close the window or my mouth, how we always
arrived the wrong day, how we order cake even though I never
eat it. Tell me how you are still a country away, a lifetime
ago, the only person who knows the words I carved inside

the library, that one time you were here and everybody knew
it was us. Tell me about the dream-you, how he is not the boy
I fell in love with, but is always saying that poems are about
death, and sex. And how no matter how much you love me
or tell your therapist I matter, I can depend on you not being

here when I wake up. Because boredom is like bus windows,
the kind you push out during emergencies, the kind that,
like the body, can still move and change, and melt, or shatter
on impact.

Daddy’s Girl --- Draft 3

Thanks to Alix & Jen for some very helpful criticism on this one. Holla!

Keep quiet and watch the same Hitler special on History channel, get up
only to pee, open mouth only to remind me Hitler had syphilis or drink

root beer. Move your hand only to pet the cat, who is starting to look like
you, growing old, more than just gray sideburns now, or to pat my shoulder,

and ask okay, okay? about nothing I’ve said out loud. Keep quiet, don’t say
I love you to anyone I know- just that one girl who is not my mother, the one

locked away with all the things you’ll never tell us, like why you stopped
drinking or if you graduated high school. She is locked away with you under

Picasso postcards, Elvis collectibles. You never said I love you to anyone
I know, but you did give me that Janis Joplin CD when I was eight, taught me

all the words to the White Album and bought frilly socks for me, and my sisters,
when we were too small to shop for ourselves, the same socks I would shove

into my backpack after getting on the bus, the way I threw out the cat food
cans you put in my lunchbox every day because I was Katie Kitten my whole

life. You started to keep quiet when your dad forgot English, can’t speak
anymore since words stopped making sense, since Grandma kept praying

and you never learned how, since nothing could possibly matter anymore
but the way you taught me how to lose my brain. When I keep quiet, only you

know. Shake your head and say okay, okay.

Baby Bitch, formally Garbage Man. Final Draft.

Baby Bitch – formally Garbage Man --- Draft 4
The man I miss- here, not 10 states or 2439.19 miles away
like usual, is fighting with me over directions: maps always fails us
when we're finally ten inches apart. When he gets mad, we both get
quiet and I stare at the swinging Jesus from the driver’s seat but forget
to pray. Clenched fists keep bad things in finger tips, like they have
since I was six. You can't yell at me, I tell him in a voice same
volume as the Ween song humming through half-busted speakers
in an all-busted Olds. The quiet is too loud to speak till he touches
my hand, or head, or whatever I let him touch, and sings along with words
in context: insulting, but from his mouth a hymn of forgiveness, please
don’t cry. Only his voice matters, crawls like steam under bathroom
doors, fogs up my car windows so I can't stay in this slow-burn
and when we finally get there, wherever that place was, he never says
sorry, only sings like broken Dylan to me in the voice that keeps me calling
over time zones, over weeks. It's hard to drive like that, he notes.
I am back in a kitchen I knew from being small, country blue curtains over a window
that never existed, once-white walls, stained and rented, and nod to the song
that slips from his lips, open palms around steering wheel, regrip and release,
when I remember it's not his fault. I can't blame this man
for clenched fists. He’s never even seen my kitchen.

free write entries - 11,12,13,14

Week 11
Entry 1:
My dad keeps quiet and watches the same Hitler special on the History Channel
for the fifth or sixth time this week, gets up only to pee, opens mouth only to remind me
Hitler had syphilis or to drink root beer since he was a problem on the real stuff,
moves his hands only to pet the cat who is starting to look like him growing old
and white or to pat my shoulder and ask okay, okay? about nothing I’ve said out loud.
He keeps quiet, never said I love you to anyone I know, just the girl who is not my mother
in the pictures locked away behind Picasso postcards and Elvis collectibles. Never said
I love you to anyone I know, but he did give me a Janis Joplin cd when I was eight,
bought frilly socks for me and my sisters when we were too small to shop for ourselves,
the same socks I would shove into my backpack after getting on the bus, which he walked us to
every morning until I could drive. He started to keep quiet when his dad forgot English,
can’t speak anymore since words stopped making sense, since my grandma kept praying
and my dad never learned how, since nothing could possibly matter anymore. When I keep
quiet only my dad knows, shakes his head and says okay, okay.

Entry 2:
Jokes between punch marks on time sheets and dirty
dishes in the backroom did nothing but make me
curious, wanted to know if your skin would still look
the same against me or if it would smell better, like you
did something right, the way we all look better
when we’re not in work clothes or angry at people
for asking dumb questions or giving us quarters
where dollars belong. We would melt into seahorse
sheets under mauve wall-paper, by soft-white sixty watt glow
in a $20 room off exit 101, if things had gone right.
I wanted to be your dirty laundry, the eyebrow raise
after four missed calls, your morning after, your night
before, the everything behind your she meant
nothing. But I don’t even know what you look like
naked. I wore panty hose that night.


Week 12
Entry 1:
You cannot be beautiful in poetry
anymore, cannot be serene or
majestic, watch out for song
and dance, let the poem do that-
nobody has been allowed loveliness
since Neruda was trying to get back
an ex-lover, nobody can fall in love but
you can fall into other things like garbage
cans or down rabbit holes, can be hit
but no babies can die, just remember,
unless it’s funny, Jesus can only show up
if he’s in a t-shirt and your parents’
divorce will never matter. Unless
you can tell us in single syllables
and consistent s sounds or unless
you can have them decide over
sandwiches, who gets the house
and who gets the pet ferret. The men
who have taught me to write have
all failed for not teaching me to think,
Keats, there are no more bright stars,
no more fair faces unless they grace
clock covers, no delight nor wonder
because your opinion is free anyway,
you can’t sell a book if your work
isn’t worth pennies. I want to tell
whoever decided I could not be
beautiful in poetry anymore to
shove it up their ass, in pure
monosyllabic clear as rules imagery.
How’s that for poetry?

Entry 2: Woke up early for my hangover, had enough
time to vomit in my sister’s toilet, take some vitamin C
and still be late to work but only by ten minutes or maybe
a few hours but that was earlier so I can’t remember
anymore but I remember an empty bottle I could never
have dranken if that’s the past tense of any action
but I was never one for grammatics, never one for just
about anything, never anyone I could talk to you know,
really talk to. That was the night you were conceived,
they told me. I still don’t know if that was a joke or
not but it very well could’ve been either way since
I don’t know how my parents met or if they ever were
in anything other than trouble.

Week 13
Entry 1:
I think I’m bored without you. And the mornings aren’t as
fun. No clown in my bed to wake up to, except maybe my
self, the b12 has been doing something funny to the way
I dream- did I tell you about the one where you didn’t want
to have sex anymore? I called it intercourse in my mother’s
tongue, my mother like how we always talk about Freud,
like before you left, and I think I was mad in the dream.
But I let you build a home against my breast and that fat
part of my upper arm, you know? My bed turned into mud
or rain or more vitamin b12 maybe, but it felt like too much
like heartbeat, like speed, like gaining weight all together
at one time, like remembering how you got fat, like how
you weren’t before, like how you blame donuts or cheese,
or each other, like how nobody has sex like we can you tell
everyone and I never care. But we didn’t when you didn’t
feel like it, like a girl, but in the dream. You’re still you
but it’s that dream you with the lighter hair color that hates
when I wear make-up, the dream you that is fluent in
talking backward, the dream you that only has one head
and less birthday and more cake and less you. Dream you
is not the boy I fell in love with, but like you, I always believe
in your dream self, like he is telling me something, like how
all poems are about death, like how all poems are about sex,
like how your dream self is always nervous, like how I can’t
cough when I need to, like how I always hit my alarm clock
before it ever goes off, like how my cat likes the smell of my
computer’s heat, like how my roommate always leaves the
bathroom light on, the things I can depend on, like I can depend
that you won’t be here when I wake up, like you are still
a country away, like you are still a lifetime ago, like you are still
the only person I’ve ever met that knows all the words
to every cartoon theme song, like you are still the only person
who knows the words I carved inside bookshelves in the library
that one time you were here and everyone knew it was us.

Entry 2:
I wasn’t going to talk about it, but I got lonely. I’m sorry. I got tired of seeing
her, not that you know her, arms around you, know nothing could ever stand,
in the way of what we never completed, test of numbers and answers, the questions
numbered in alphabetics, is not a word they told me I was too small to know about
a difference when I lost the spelling bee and when my mom reminded me I was not
good enough, of this bullshit and ballroom dancing the only ones for me are the
sad ones like Shirley Manson or that kid who shops at Hot Topic with his friends
every Friday night of the eighth grade and wears a lot of black even though he loves
his grandma and has a pet cat named Ralph he would die without, any water we
would float we would not be full of wasted hydrogen, bombs going off going nowhere
no way to tell if that’s the way things were supposed to or not supposed to or
scholastically to go, black no sugar no milk don’t you understand anything, is possible
like that movie Mary Poppins with the nanny who I heard was a bitch in the book,
shelves don’t hold enough for me I read slow and not that much but I write a lot
between the pages like to keep a lot of bookmarks like to take a lot of pictures and
put them where they don’t go, away me, myself and I are a lonely trio can’t ever
keep company enough to love a washed out two bit chump like that guy who i
can’t learn from, can’t anything from, can’t can’t from, can’t stand anyone
who tells me what to do when I am always, always right.

Week 14
Entry 1:
My dad called my ex-boyfriend
Caligula, my ex-boyfriend shared
Caligula’s birthday, at least that’s
what my dad said, but in history
I learned Caligula thought he was
in contact with the divine, would
dress in public like Hercules and
appointed horses as his counsel-
men. My ex-boyfriend forgot how
to cry when he was four and his
tyrant parents made him ride
a pony at one of his too-many
brothers’ birthday parties, even
though he was scared, but this is
why I cannot love him anymore.
The boy who sounds like the way
it smells when anyone around me
smokes hydroponic pot, he is too
sculpted, too kind to love, too square
a jaw, too much goodness can
kill you. When my dad likes a
person, he gives them a nickname
but he called my sister’s exboyfriend
clyde, a name that in my dad’s time
meant, not a partner in crime, but
a square, like the checked floors at
Steak and Shake at 3 am because
you already had Waffle House twice
last night. A man lights a cigarette
in the wood, alone. Can anyone
hear him scream?

Entry 2:
I have never been a threat, boy who’s always known
me asked if I was still a virgin, never a threat because
my blonde hair never paired with large body parts
except eyeballs which on their own are like swollen
grapes, because blonde hair is natural, because nobody
can be jealous of me no matter how hard I try. Did you
know they make a new kind of Skittles that fizzes on
your tongue, different flavors too, like green is melon.
If I were any other girl, what I did would’ve been wrong
but nobody’s ever been jealous of me, so when I took
that boy from that girl who was having that thing that
they never figured out, nobody was actually mad. Girls
that are well-behaved would never get away with
a vitamin deficiency. I tried to stop them in their tracks
with white teeth and good shampoo but the thing is
men always know if you are good or if you are better.
One time, I did a bad thing and we got rocks thrown
at our knees, but I was only four or five and I think
I told them to stop anyway but nobody ever listened
to me because my voice was little like me, like I
would always be, like how people have always seen
me, like how I see me reflected in a mirror, bouncing
body like a seizing heart or animal, when I was little
before, it was called jumping on the bed, like monkeys
like the monkeys jumping on the bed, the kind where
they called doctors, called moms, called cops, called
corpses, called upon dead relatives in black and white
photographs that hang next to the picture of my dad
in a gallery because he could’ve made it big if we didn’t
ruin everything. you are good in this space. you are
good no matter how hard you try to be bad because
sometimes we cannot do anything but write our names
in the top right corner of sheets of notebook paper
hard in number 2 lead until our hands fall off.

Improvs, Weeks 11, 13, 14 & 15

Week 11: Entry 1:Entry 1: from Jillian Weise's “The Body in Pain”
“Dear Lucy, You do not know me. It feels wrong/ for me to know about the heroin, the bags/ of mail you kept, the bolt in your face./ For what it is worth, I have a bolt in my hip,/ a hook along my spine. I don’t want to talk/ about any of this. Tell me: what was your last/ good thing.? Can we stay there?”
Dear June 6,
You do not remember me, I bet, but I know about your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles towel you’ve had since the first time your mom bought you ice cream sandwiches, maybe you were six but since then you figured out they always taste better from the truck. For what it’s worth, I remember everything you never knew how to say out loud, how you tasted after our first dinner and a frozen slushy we started to share in the backseat of that blue beast I’ve had to tell all my secrets to since I lost your number. I remember every hook along your spine, all the bumps of bone I could feel through skin no matter how much you eat. I know we have forgotten how to talk about any of this but tell me, can we stay there? Not boyfriend or lover, not a friend with benefits even, even though there were the benefits and we were friends, you were my first step, the only one between me and my new good thing. Before there were words, there were our fingerprints on fogged windows, paint stains on trampolines, and always that smell of old donut glaze in your hair, the smell from the hallway that morning before that german test I didn’t fail, the smell that brought me back to you in the woods holding hands talking about a marriage neither of us wanted, how we were too small to feel this big, how the trees were green like the flecks in your blue eyes, the ones nobody gets close enough to see, how they would have been green somehow, we’d say, we’d say nothing and know everything nobody else could talk about. Do you remember the good thing? Tell me, can we just stay there?

Entry 2: from Jillian Weise’s “The Gift”
“We fly home/ with new parts. We tell everyone it was/ an accident in the Ford Escape and should/ be normal in a few days. Now we can be happy./ I always wanted to strip at the Kitty Cave/ on South Elm. Holman always wanted/ to drop pants in front of several women,/ lights on. We have affairs. We are in love.”

We tell everyone it was an accident, one that needed to be
put into a pocket like rocks, like any other raised-in-Tennessee
boy, just hidden away unseen and untouched we just needed
to think about it for a while, think about erasing names from notebooks
that would have ever made it seem like something we wanted,
like we wanted anything , but I swear we didn’t. I only wanted
you, your face against my face or thighs or anywhere that wasn’t
elsewhere, as long as you were somewhere near me – I didn’t
cry when we found out because I don’t care. I just didn’t want you
to fly home without leaving something behind for me to remember
your smoke where I would’ve forgotten any other affair. We left
the lights on, can you believe it? I guess you would have to, since you
were there, were not interested in taking time off or closing windows.
There is no time when you are in love to do anything but complain
about how you wish certain parts were different, not bigger or
better, but maybe less functioning, less determined to follow
their anatomical properties, because when you are in love,
you will not have time to think about how your body will do
whatever it wants, no matter how many sixth grade health
pamphlets taught you that you will get pregnant, and die.

Week 13: Entry 1:from Melanie Jordan’s "Parenthetical"
“I’m watching/ a woman’s shadow overwhelm the red/ interior of her second story while/ the white curtain like a minidress/ obscures her waist, ruffles her thigh./ She changes…”

Overwhelmed by the red that frames the window
when the sun is setting on the third floor, all I see
is a woman’s shadow. This is the first time I’ve noticed
but I wonder if she’s noticed, seen me not-staring,
not-noticing, not clothed or conscious sometimes,
towel damp and in underpants, ironing pants or white
hair that happened on accident (Bonnie told me I should
try.), and I wonder what would happen if I invited her,
this shadow, for tea, not that I drink tea, but I would
for her, for you, I’d tell her, tell her I have seen her
on my wall, ten feet tall or more, less overwhelmed
by the real thing but more in love than I am with
the shadow. I wonder if she would dance slow like
with me by the light of the setting lampshade,
wonder if she would kiss me slow or kiss me at all,
if I am even her type, if she is even that type,
to kiss without asking where these lips have been
which is nowhere lately, I’d tell her that. Tell her
anything she did or did not want to hear, not here
to lie but here to fall in trouble with the girl with the most
beautiful shadow I’ve ever danced with. The music
would slow and I would ask her back to the room,
which she looks into every night, I’m sure of that now.

Entry 2: from Jordan’s “Charlie Brown in the Dead of Night”
“I’ve danced with girls before, swaying lightly back/ and forth, just on the edge of what it means/ to fill my body, of being poured in like wet cement.”
I’ve danced with you before, girl, swayed
with you light like cloud head, like light black,
like the edge of meaning or the edge of a fresh
haircut, soft body to fill you with, soft lips to kiss
your mindcult, man can’t touch what you own
or need, nothing can do anything better than we
can’t do them. I am swaying with you again
in smoke rings and blush puffs, this night mean
knowing it will end us because there is no end
of us or end of anything but we are not allowed
to think or learn because we are only allowed
each other, allowed to say real words when drunk
is on our breaths, between our breaths, between
our breasts, between any and all things where beauty
is born, the words you came from, the words
you were born from, words like brunette and ovary,
words that you blow in my ear, scented pink like
how it feels to wake up next to you sober.

Week 14: entry 1:From Bridgette Byrd’s “After Gazing at the Rain”
“About the scar he said It’s right here and the story was written on his side like a flower. She watched their slippage like an inward astronomer on the evidence of pain. She woke up to feel their fingers locked…”
I woke to find your fingers broken by picking flowers on repeat she loves me loves me not she loves me loves me loves me but nothing belongs to the lost cigarette behind green plumes. I was or you might have been drinking cherry coke in faux French and your accent was music a sexy metaphor to ears that did not know better or did not know anything. music is not talkative though not gracious or hard. Do you have the power to light a diamond? to flash like a disposable camera? to be a cigarette without a filter like the last one? Where did the hunger go? Behind couches next to Jesus hiding because he never did want to be found only remembered like baseball players like Paris Hilton like everyone I never wanted to get to know any better. You need never turn to the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild. They never answer the phone. They only attend frat parties.

Entry 2: From those last one-line poems of Byrd’s – “On hanging onto a denounement she said If there is no end to this story I shall tie another flower to the narrative.”
There is no end to this story so I shall tie another razor blade to the window. I know you are attracted. A quarter of weed will buy you a tall cup of skim milk in this one-trick-pony town but you cannot buy it here and if you do it will not fit into the shopping cart because there are no wheels. Her shorts in the cereal aisle rode up her shorts rode up her shorts to show the sweat stain in her butt crack. The boy said I will dry clean your heart but I told him to stop to not say so much to the man behind the curtain. I told him not to brush so hard after flossing that way that his teeth would never be white anyway that he was stained with the love of exhaustion. I was comfortable rolling the shopping cart filled with your cement clogs into the piles of boxes overpriced what they call snacks but what she calls disgusting. Why is it so dark and the floor is made of clay? I melted with Artax. He was a white horse. And now I have killed him.


Week 15:
Since we didn't have a specific poet this week I am riffing off Kim Addonizio since she's my favorite. Evah.
Entry 1: from Kim Addonizio’s “Forms of Love” - "I love everything about you except your hair./ If it weren't for that I know I could really, really love you."
I broke up with my first boyfriend ever because
he got a haircut. All I remember is coming to school
and seeing this boy look wrong, look like he a problem,
like a mistake, like the haircut gave him away, no more
mystery or charm, no more wit or good handwriting-
which was, of course, my favorite thing. His hair
probably did not even look good long but I don’t think
that was the point. When he cut his hair, I passed him
a note, made him cry during lunch and that was the first
real heartbreak I caused, first boy I hated when I saw him
cry, first time I never wanted to see somebody ever again,
and for good reason: tears make people turn to trolls,
warped faces and he already hated all the music I liked,
his eyebrows in a frenzy of furrow, wrinkled forehead
and puppy dog eyes- I am not going to feed you, Fido,
not going to entertain you with flushing the toilet fifty
times a day just so you can watch, I will flush it once,
when necessary, and I will gladly watch you squirm.


from “Happiness After Grief” “feels like such a betrayal: the hurt not denied, not pushed away, but gone entirely for that moment you can’t help feeling good in, a moment of sudden, irrational joy over nothing of consequence, really, which makes it all somehow seem even worse. Shouldn’t happiness be the result of some grand event, something adequate to counter that aching, gaping chasm that opened when… But, no: it’s merely this: there goes our little neighbor, running barefoot, no pants, fox stole wrapped around her shoulders.”
Around my mother’s neck is her dead mother’s string of
leftovers, the things that weighed her down. My grandmother,
the thoughtful woman she was, left my mother these things,
bills and molding cheese in her fridge, and a cat, Tiger, who
was too old to learn to love anybody but my mean old grandma
who is dead now, because she died alone. Her funeral played
traditional Swedish music that I nearly choked not to laugh at,
but my dad cried even though I think he used to hate her
because she locked my sister up in a dark bathroom but of course
there are monsters and toilet paper is not nice but she was
not a nice lady, and I mean that. She liked me but she
forgot how to love my mom, never loved her maybe, at least
not as much as my dumb uncle or rich aunt, good people
with bad intentions, but when my grandma died only my mother
cared, only my mother listened to her dead wishes, only one
with a gaping chasm where she should’ve been given a heart
but I think the wizard forgot, forgot like my mom never will
like my grandma never forgave, like people can only do one
or the other, never both, the good feelings like pants that
are too tight or too loose or missing a button, like the ones
my grandma knew how to push on my poor mother, like to tell
my mom she was going to be okay one day, like my mom was
still not enough, like she was still in middle school, the first kid
with braces in her whole city almost, crooked teeth to ruin
an otherwise perfect smile.

Junkyards - Weeks 11, 12, 13, 14

Week 11
“Wednesday happens seven times a week.” –Charles Bauch
Sunshine in the park (talking about kisses on the stomach, not actual sunshine in the park)
I had a dream you called me and said you were moving to Colorado to live alone and grow a read beard. –a text message from me to my friend Ryan…
“Well, now time passed and now it seems everybody's having them dreams. Everybody sees themselves walkin' around with no one else. Half of the people can be part right all of the time, some of the people can be all right part of the time. But all the people can't be all right all the time… I think Abraham Lincoln said that. 'I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours,' I said that." –Bob Dylan, Talkin’ World War III Blues
“I’m in my room without pants on.” –Bbram.
12
“Let the silkworm die, let it die, as in fact it does when it has completed the work which it was created to do. …And now let us see what becomes of this silkworm, When it is in this state of prayer, and quite dead to the world, it comes out a little white butterfly.” -St. Teresa of Avila in The Interior Castle
"Feelings of ease, intensity, power, well-being, financial omnipotence, and euphoria pervade one's marrow. But, somewhere, this changes. The fast ideas are far too fast, and there are far too many; overwhelming confusion replaces clarity. Memory goes. Humor and absorption on friends' faces are replaced by fear and concern. Everything previously moving with the grain is now against-- you are irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable, and enmeshed totally in the blackest caves of the mind. You never knew those caves were there. It will never end, for madness carves its own reality." — Kay Redfield Jamison (An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness)
“I mean, how many cats can wear boots? Honestly?” –Shrek… in Shrek 2
“I’m think I’m bored without you.”
"But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people." -Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
13
“I’m never as good as when you’re there.” Almost Famous
“All the wax was melting on the trees... He would crawl on balconies, climb everywhere. Do anything for her... My Danny boy. Thousands of birds. The tiniest birds adorned her hair... Everything was golden... One night the bed caught fire... He was handsome, and a very good criminal... We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars... It was the afternoon of extravagant delight... Danny, the Daredevil... Candy the blessing... The day's last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks..." –from the movie Candy
“I think this red bull is broken.” –Bbram.
“I almost wish we were butterflies…”
The sound of you is the smell of hydroponic pot

week 14
“…constantly assaulted by outside voices.” –Brigitte Byrd
“I understand each word but I don’t understand them together.” –Brigitte Byrd
“Some people are just… necessary.” –Matthew Sherling
“And all I found was this bottle…” –Mackenzie Garrot
“What was left to betray?” –Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being