We prefer
“Lesbian-Americans”
thank you
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Rocks
I.
the only weapon
I ever saw
brown-skinned people
use on TV
were rocks
so I thought
whoever had
the most rocks
won the war
II.
(laser sounds)
III.
big, heavy rocks
what do you do with the rocks
drop them on the computer
our oneself, whichever seems more affective
"or" not "out
OUR
UFCCK
WHERE ARE MY ROCKSS
the only weapon
I ever saw
brown-skinned people
use on TV
were rocks
so I thought
whoever had
the most rocks
won the war
II.
(laser sounds)
III.
big, heavy rocks
what do you do with the rocks
drop them on the computer
our oneself, whichever seems more affective
"or" not "out
OUR
UFCCK
WHERE ARE MY ROCKSS
Monday, February 7, 2011
College
I dreamed that I went to college
and there, I played air guitar
and peed in a bucket in the kitchen
Jeff shows me a boring comic book
and April shows me something real interesting
Bill Clinton walks around campus all day long
walking his dog...
I dreamed that I went to college
and there, I played air guitar
and peed in a bucket in the kitchen
and then, I went to math class.
and there, I played air guitar
and peed in a bucket in the kitchen
Jeff shows me a boring comic book
and April shows me something real interesting
Bill Clinton walks around campus all day long
walking his dog...
I dreamed that I went to college
and there, I played air guitar
and peed in a bucket in the kitchen
and then, I went to math class.
Friday, February 4, 2011
In a Bag or a Box
She was pale as a ghost under the Taco Bell lighting,
or maybe she really was a ghost at that point, I couldn’t quite say,
because most things looked unwell in that place.
And yet, we kept coming back,
anything to beat the facebook psychosis,
the quarter-life crisis,
the social disease jitters.
I watched her sit and sip her soda,
and I could feel my shoulders getting tighter
when I thought I heard the cashier ask me,
“would you like to be buried in a bag or a box?”
“A bag?”, I questioned, puzzled by the option.
“No,” she said, “a box”.
“Okay,” I said.
or maybe she really was a ghost at that point, I couldn’t quite say,
because most things looked unwell in that place.
And yet, we kept coming back,
anything to beat the facebook psychosis,
the quarter-life crisis,
the social disease jitters.
I watched her sit and sip her soda,
and I could feel my shoulders getting tighter
when I thought I heard the cashier ask me,
“would you like to be buried in a bag or a box?”
“A bag?”, I questioned, puzzled by the option.
“No,” she said, “a box”.
“Okay,” I said.
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