If I am to be fossilized
You are to be fossilized
And paleontologists are to find us
They will take an incorrect model
Of a 21st century human
From our jumbled remains
I can’t imagine they’d come away
From even a perfect preservation
Of us in bed without thinking
We were a mutant hybrid
Unified two in one octopus mess
A trick of nature’s inner fish
Sleeping the ages away.
good band name:
Vending machines that serve up pot have existed for some time, but up until now have only lived behind counters at medical marijuana dispensaries. Now, the very first weed vending machine that…
WE LIVE IN THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS!
come to chicago pls
I am not a “numbers guy”
in the sense that someone
who is hunted by assassins
isn’t a “murderer aficionado”.
Numbers lurk in every archway
and they seem to have something
one two three four
A girl with the number thirty-
two tattooed on her jawline
winked at me across liquor bottles
the fourth time I bought a 6.25%
by volume alcoholic beverage and
several million bubbles with it. And I
tried to count them all as I pretended
this was just soda for mildly depressed
people in my room, but they always
blinked away just when I counted
on them to be there. I have done
this four times (and counting).
five six seven eight
I have been utterly convinced that
everything is comprised of numbers
so small they are secret and distant
ever since I began reading things
like “Eight people went with the
grace of God when a man who is
quantifiably not God took — for the
last time — the rifle he obsessively
disassembled and glued together with
hate to the street that felt most like a
firing range; this time he turned it on
a new type of target because his wife left
him six months ago and took the two kids.”
nine ten eleven twelve
The violence of this place seems to be made
of numbers born howling just as surely as
love is digits held together by a single force
of will, alone yet together, present in either a
parent and child walking home from the kid’s
first victory in soccer, or two newlyweds on one
of Havana’s numerous beaches, just like how
two is present in thirty two and twelve,
or how one is there in everything
(lonely as it may be). I see these figures
as inscrutable calculations that never work
out quite as expected, like the numbers you get
if you put a scorpion in a calculator instead of
a battery, because there’s always
a one you forget to carry: a brother you
argue with instead of comforting, a girl you
hug instead of kiss, a friend who brings up,
every chance he can get, the fact that
starvation is actually the best way to go
because of the fleet of endorphins your
body will release when it senses you’re
trying to opt out of doing the math.
thirteen fourteen fifteen
At sixteen, I wouldn’t have known what
to do with a girl’s number. At twenty one,
I don’t know what to do with a girl’s number.
At thirty-two, I might not know what to do with
a girl’s number. But the girl I inexplicably want
is the one you can’t add two lesser girls to get,
the one who won’t be another fucking blank
out of ten to remember. I wanna meet a girl
who doesn’t come to mind simply when I think
of eleven sigils in sequence. I’m thinking there’s
a girl like tau out there. Somewhere. She’s probably
drunk and brilliant and can kick my ass, which is
no mean feat. I hope she can help me out with
all this fuckin’ math homework.
It was hot and we took our clothes off
Sunlight glinting off lash marks
A fresh one is making its way
Down from heaven.
Your hair done up like a Hepburn,
Charming clicks and guttural squawks
Your patience eroding beneath
My unending assault.
Small worry in Topeka.
Bigger worry in your belly.
Turnstiles outside the district.
I check again for my ticket,
And I check again for my ticket
Both hands rooting through pockets,
If I trip, I will certainly fall.
Signs and I got waylaid, put away to dusk
Tucked in tight, I think I smell some must.
Cracks along the ceiling, naphthalene and choice
Built into the pipes with strychnine voice.
Man, we are not welcome;
The house, it heaves and hails.
Chips of plaster fall into the grails.
Smashed a cuckoo clock upon my last five meals
And wept like some train station widow in the era.
To watch the timeless chug from me
I don’t shower no more.
It took a couple minutes, but new smells gathered up,
Lifted their skirts and let me have enough.
Anonymous asked: what is your idea of love, and have you experienced it
I’m going to assume that you mean romantic love, because platonic love is boring and the love used as a verb in most social settings is shallow.
I dunno. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I’ve been obsessed, and I don’t think the two are the same. I think love, generally speaking, is when you trust someone considerably more than you don’t, enough so that you’re willing and ready to get lost in them, like they’re a weird alleyway next to a baker’s shop that you might get shanked in, but the further you go down it, the more you smell some delicious bread. When that happens (when you get lost in someone like they’re a space), you start defining things in terms of the other person, and that’s how love colors everything a lover knows.
Anonymous asked: relationship question?
Go for it.
That caption is priceless. ”Less than 30 days old”
I’ve learned that cider is basically a soda. It’s hardly even alcohol.