my physical education teacher
once told me i had thunderous
thighs, like two skyscrapers attached
at the top at a 45º angle.
here is how the conversation went down:
‘you’re right, but i don’t
think that’s pertinent right now
as you are no longer my physical
education teacher and you are
interrupting my wedding vows’
oh he said
‘yeah, that’s my family over there.
they’re kind of in a rush for me to get
married so i don’t die alone. so if you
wouldn’t mind stepping aside so i can
finally mouth-kiss this chick’
wow i’m sorry i uh i don’t even
know how i got here this is really
strange **** what year is it even
‘it’s 2015. with all due respect sir,
you are really testing my patience’
jeeze i could have sworn i was standing
in front of a younger you just a second ago
‘listen don’t bore me with your time-travelly
apparition into the future ******** i would
really just like to get married and not have to
punch you in the ****
sorry sorry what have i done to deserve this
are you sure it’s not 1994 still is this an elaborate
joke oh god oh god
‘just get the **** outta here okay?’
and then he shot himself in the face
like a rising sun that got a little too
self-conscious about the waning moon
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching
from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it
to leave ever
all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking
about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now
you want it to move on and make a big life
for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you
until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton
known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone
hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario
you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the
piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like
characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable
and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense
the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold
and its own episode of mtv cribs.
you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger
the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are
proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies
the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own
self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area
i can hear bad music
coming from the room
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something
it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)
like a dairy queen in
late september,
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces
i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face
my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality
i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account,
too because
it reminds me of myself
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
Your analyst once called you a wretch
and told you to leave.
You say you get
“caught up in the moment” but really
you are morphing in disarray –
poet to death-marker, undertaker to toddler;
it’s boring and you accept that.
What you lack in understanding
you make up for in crushed leaves.
Like a tractor-trailor in the Bronze Age,
you are out of place.
But the sky is starrier than ever
so you feel okay
when the wind hits your eyes.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:51 PM UTC