in the midst of a historic crisis, i ride my bike to the river

Everything tended to with love bears fruit they told me. 

Now I don’t care anymore. I’m writing posthumously; I’m invisible now – like an “aging actress”!

That every aspect of her life could have an expensive accoutrement was highly erotic.

I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”

There’s something unbearably endearing
about Pepto-Bismol in its retro European
packaging

How much would you pay to have an honest conversation with yourself?

He turns up late to almost all of his final exams, answers whatever questions he feels like and defaces the rest of the paper.

I vomited
up a prophecy in a dive bar,
inhaling hot dogs.

I lie in bed a long time before sleep comes. I wonder if I love Natalie or if I’m just so bored and I’m turning fleeting, tiny moments into full scale cinematic affairs in my head.

To begin abruptly: I’ve been some degree of suicidal since I was fourteen. I don’t think this makes me special. In fact, I think I’d be more of an individual if I’d always wanted to live.

A year wrapped in a day, a teardrop at the climax of every way that wounded, furthering the wounds.

There is kind of a freedom in the humiliation of feeling a little bit trashy.

I can tell she’s not convinced. But I’ve been Googling symptoms: confusion, nausea, loss of appetite, changes in sleep patterns, visual hallucinations, erratic behavior.

That was the world then…

That was the world then….bawdy cars and tawdry thoughts and rundown wannabe skyscrapers brownie baked by the sun that just looked cheap against the horizon and everybody

She breathed deeply and saw an image of the naughtiest kids in the afterschool program laughing at her.

waylon in the kitchen
pancakes
the pain of a tattoo gun on ribs 

Drainage stains. Snow turns to shivering rain. The rear facing concrete walls.

The day I stopped being a woman was a hard-boiled egg kind of day. 

I hold myself in the plank position. The little dog sits on the rug watching. It’s a very expensive rug. She’s not supposed to be here. He’s up on the purple couch and I do not know what he is

When I was a younger man in my early 20s slumming about Watauga County in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina living off of sacks of potatoes, Top Ramen, and 50 cent day-old bread from Jimmy John's in the midst of a youthful exploration of self-discovery, my primary means of spiritual sustenance being $2 40 oz bottles of malt liquor, my relationships with scoundrels, endearing friends, an abundance of hedonism, a lack of responsibility, a poor boy’s decadence, bright-eyed women, and Kamel Red cigarettes, Elizabeth Ellen was the first literary publisher to accept any work that I’d submitted. This was circa 2014. Felt that she was the Hackmuth to my Great Bandini.

I first saw Todd Field’s Tár in a packed theatre in Bloomfield Township, Michigan with a crowd
of mostly middle-aged and above upper to upper-middle class New Yorker-tote-bag liberal types.
During the first 20 or so minutes of the film I found myself annoyed, fidgeting in my seat and
groaning as I sat through the titular EGOT winner’s conversation with Adam Gopnick.

My neighbor let his Rottweiler roam without a leash again and I’m an inch away from planting razor blades inside my tomatoes.

“you’re bad at finishing beverages that aren’t alcoholic,” you told me

I was zipped up to my nose in a sleeping bag, inhaling moist breath mingled with olfactory ghosts of campfires and wild sex past.

We paid the cover charge and stood among the young homosexuals of Columbus.