"Get over here, brat!" Levi hollered at me from across the room, with that permanent scowl and annoyed voice. I prance over to the table he stood over and studied the map he had laid out in front of him.

"What do you think of this?" he asked me. I continued staring at the map. it showed titans coming in, now closer to the walls than they ever had been before; the titans were getting braver.

"We have to scare them away. Look! I made this new potion that when thrown on a titan's face, will explode and make a fog over the titan's face, confusing the titan and making it easier for the scouts to **** the titan. Let's try it out when we go scare the titans away!" I exclaimed with fervor and grinned excitedly.

"Problem, four-eyes. Everyone is either dead or has left for vacation." Levi stared at me, matter of factly.

"Well, we'll get them all together! It's time to kick some titan-***!"

Levi snickered at me. But he always does that anyway.
What was I thinking attacking with only the two of us. I'm always prepared to die, but not today. Today will be different.

"Four-eyes, there's only twenty of them. We can do this with your new potion stuff. Your brain's inane like them. You probably knew them the best. I believe in you brat." Levi gave me that uplift despite the sarcasm.

We planned out our pattern strategically. Usually it'll be easy with eight men. But I need to uphold his trust. His beliefs.

The first explosion went perfectly, grazed the titan's face but his nose exploded. And we killed him in a second. We managed to skewer more than we expected. Explosions within seconds, titan growled in agony as they fell to their demise. Suddenly something flew up in the air.

"Run hanji!!! This ******* can fly!!!"

I lurch away just in time as the titan snapped his jaw right where I was at. I maneuver around, trying to get away, killing titans left and right. It still trails behind me and I run.

"Levi! What do I do?!?!" I holler to him.

"Figure it out, four eyes! I'm busy!" Levi hollers back as he kills a titan. I glance back at the flying titan, trying to think of a way to outmaneuver it. Hmm 15m class, wing span of maybe 20m, two capable legs and two arms, vulnerable neck, but wings help it fly... can we use its flying ability against it?

I throw a potion at the things head and maneuver my way into a building window. It follows me, right where I want it to, and the potion explodes in its face, so it blindly reaches forward. I maneuver out a nearby window and slice its throat as it stays face first into the side of the building, confused on where I went and what it's seeing. It roars, then slumps down, dead. I make a mental note to come back here and inspect this new titan later, but for now, I run towards the other titans, ready for the bloodshed to come.

Jumanji was your favorite Robin Williams movie
Mine was Dead Poets Society
You didn’t think it was too interesting
And you fell asleep on my shoulder
When we watched it on a pixilated
2” by 5” screen
Moving at 1 ½ miles per hour
On a bus
Going 5000 frames per second
Over a burnt sandwich chips
We stopped near Michigan and State
To talk about our favourite books
Yours was As I Lay Dying
Mine was The Old Man And The Sea
We talked about the relationship
Between Faulkner
And Hemmingway
And if they ever kissed
Or shared coffee
Or at least thought about it
If Faulkner liked Jumanji
And Hemmingway was partial
To Dead Poets Society
If it turned out
They were chips of a fractured whole
Did Faulkner ever take Hemmingway home?
Does the Hemmingway house still have Faulkner’s toothbrush
On a splintered wooden nightstand?
Did they ever wake up with the wrong socks on the wrong feet
And laugh it off because it was so funny
Were they ever afraid?
Were they ever happy?
Did Faulkner write to Hemmingway
About the Post office?
Did Hemmingway write to Faulkner
About fishing?
“The old man lay dying in the sea”
We wondered if they ever wrote together
Held hands
Traded coffee cups
But you fell asleep
And I kept writing
And watching Dead Poets Society
Wondering if Hemmingway ever would have

i am grateful for stretch denim on days
when
          **** it
is a fashion statement
for lavender laundry detergent
because that smell reminds me of the home i've built in my head
for tea at
2 a.m.
when all the things i've done race in my head
because the next morning, i usually get my **** together
for colds
because they make eating an entire roll of cinnamon buns
completely justifiable
for the mountains that surround me
for NPR and good, rated M fanfiction
for def poetry when i can't find the right words
for finding a pack of cigarettes when it is only
11:30pm on a thursday night
and i am well past drunk in a slightly damp armchair
for harry potter and neil gaiman
for when twenty dollars fills up my gas tank
for my grandma's potato salad and biscuits with honey
for feminist zines that make me want to smash the patriarchy
for burts bees chapstick and jasmine-green tea
for friends who let me cry on their
bedroom floors
for books that keep me entertained
(even if that means me crying in my bathtub while reading them)
for courtney love and joan jett because those *******
have ridden in my car with me over many
heart-breaks
for well-water and sulfate free red wine
for johnny cash and new orleans and whiskey
for salt-- because that **** can wash away anything
for farmer's markets and co-ops
for bottles of water  and for cookie dough
when my mouth
is the consistency of cotton  and my mind is a little bit gone
for warm days in January and cold days in September
for breakfast and for hikes that begin at five a.m.
for summer nights drunk on wine and a little too much fire
for friends who call me 'momma bear' and for friends that call me 'baby bird'
for poems that give you cold chills
and flowers stolen from my neighbor's yard
for skin that smells like the sun and sage
for beeswax candles
and the smell of clean laundry
for days when i wake up and realize
i could have died on a bathroom floor

Today
I ran into the cute boy
at work who I’ve seen.
I was getting that
morning hot chocolate
leaving the kitchen
and I thought to myself
this is how the fanfiction
I wrote starts
By bumping into someone
leaving a coffee shop
And then it really happened
Leaving the doorway
the cute boy at work I’ve seen
came around the corner
We both said
Oh sorry
And I got to hear his voice
I barely even looked up
but I knew it was the one
who’s desk I walk by
when I take the long way
back to mine
When I walked away
I wanted to go back in
to see the boy who almost
made a fanfiction be real
But I put my hand
over my mouth
and kept going
in order to not ruin the moment
of the almost.

I would like to ask you Russos, why Tony Stark is dead?
And who the **** dropped you both on the head?

Cap needs to apologise and his found family,
Nat needs less lies and strong female company.

Thor’s depression should not be overlooked
And where the **** did Pep learn to cook?

Stop letting Fury traumatise a child,  
And for once let hope do something wild.

Stop dropping our favourite characters off cliffs
Stop saying you’ll fix it in ‘what if’.

Strange’s PTSD could not be cured by magic
And yes Clint’s story is tragic,

But that does not excuse his ****** spree.
Why aren’t more characters more like Rhodey?

Maybe try reading the comics your work should be based on
And we’ll try ignoring your obvious *******,  

For self-insert fanfiction with you as the token gay character.
Because representation doesn’t fit your parameter.

For all your stories I have one simple wish;
Stop making us cry over ******* like this.

She stands in front of me holding her microphone at my lips, cameras flash around us.
                                                           “Congratulations on your book.”
I wrote a book. I’ve done something with my life and that makes me GOOD. smile for the camera, million dollar grins taste like bile. Thank you, thank you all!
                                                          “What inspired you to write this”
I don’t remember what book she’s talking about, incarnadine, middle of mars, buoyant, the harry potter fanfiction in my google docs.
                                                                       “What are you afraid of?”
Snakes.
                                    “Why won’t you tell us what you’re afraid of?”
SNAKES
                                                                     “What scares you the most?”
The gun shoots into the back of her head, her mouth drips blood onto my dress. The girls are gone, everyone is gone, I hold the dead reporter and scream for help.
I turn her over to see her face, my friend stares back at me and the weight of the gun is heavy in my right hand.

Darkness. Pitch- black- darkness-
The phone rings on my bedside table, i scramble through the empty bags of goldfish and glasses of wine. The crack shoots through the middle of the phone, when i slide to answer the pressure of my finger makes the screen turn blue.
“Hello?”
                                                                                         “What are you-”
I throw the phone against the dresser and when I open my eyes I’m standing on top of the bank of america tower, rain pelts my back stinging me through my clothes. I step off the ledge and plummet-
Underwater in the pool resurfacing for air, my dead friend laughs with her boyfriend, throwing her head back for the last sip of beer. The bullet hole is gone, she’s alive. I didn’t **** her.

Or maybe you did and now you’re dead too.

The gravestone rests in the corner of the brandon graveyard, surrounded by mossy trees and mud there are no flowers here, not a valuable life lost.
                                              Madison Ballou
                                                    AFRAID
I cry on the bench, holding onto the frays of my black cardigan to steady myself between the sorrow. How old was I? How old AM I? Seventeen, I was only seventeen when I died. God sits next to me, spinning tarot cards in his hands.
                                                                                  “What have I done?”
He doesn’t say anything and flips over the card. The tower.
                                                                           “Tell me it’s not too late.”
The train pulls into the station, the station being the graveyard, over my grave. They let a train run over my ******* grave. It’s smoke billows into the atmosphere and the whistle is loud.
I look back to God and he holds nothing. “What am I doing?” I ask, talk to me.
“You were seventeen years old when you died. You were seventeen when you were born, too.”
“What does that mean?”
“Get on the train.”
“Where will it take me?”
“On.”

I’m so ******* hungry right now.
I haven’t eaten since Monday, look at me, look at me. Ravenous, hunger, belly aches of nothingness. I am beautiful! God almighty, BEAUTIFUL! But these ribcages aren’t letting me breathe anymore, size 0 isn’t as glamorous as it seems.
I drink wine to fill the void of food, I eat food to fill the other voids, but i filled those with LSD and now there’s nothing left.

Standing in front of the refrigerator, the reporter comes and stands next to me. “What are you afraid of?”

“Eating.”

                                                           -x-

The phone rings again, vibrating across the room. I crawl on carpet and reach for it, the ringing stops once it’s in my hand. 3 Missed Calls from Brandon. Standing up my room my head spins and the ceiling is still out of reach. The closer I get, the further away it runs. Am I alive? I check my neck for a pulse and it beats with a rapid rhythm. Water, I need water.


The lake is beautiful, clear water, drinking water. Pandora! Heaven! I drink the water and it cools my insides, my heart slows to a regular beat. Then the water turns thick in my throat, the taste of metal making me gag. Blood fills the lake, bodies of the dead floating.
NoNo!
The cameras catch me in front of the lake, I turn towards them with blood still running down my chin. “I-”
“These are all the people who cared, all the people who cried.”
I turn back to the lake and I see the funeral, everyone I love dressed in black, expressionless faces. My mom hides her face in her hands and a part of me is thankful I can’t see it.
“What are you afraid of?”
The choir sings but it sounds like blood.
“Mars!” She yells. “What happened to you?”

Idon’tknowanymore. I don’t know.
I don’t know what happened to me and I’m scared.
I open my eyes to my uncle, molesting me once again.
I remember this vividly.
I open my eyes to being punched
they close again.


My stomach drops, I’m falling. I cannot see where I am falling, everything around me is dark- only a blinding light from above? Have I died again? I jolt on the couch, waking up to my friends house. I cannot recall how I have gotten here, or why it is midnight of the next day.
Friday-sunday. Saturday forgotten.
The computer is bright in the dark room, I can hear girls whispering in the other room, one jumping in the pool. My name comes up on the screen as a user ID, waiting for me to type in my password.
My phone lays beside me in a mess of blankets and pillow sheets, 30 new notifications. Nobody is wondering where I am, so I guess i’m not lost.

My snapchat memories are filled with videos and pictures of my friends, we went to the beach today, we threw a party. Where was I this whole time?
In the pictures but absent.

A text comes through, one from an unknown number
What are you afraid of?
I type back, what do you want from me?
Nobody answers.

I know this feeling lonliness like the back of my hand.
We spent a lot of time together last year..
Collapsing back into bed and watching as the roof sets on fire the smoke enters through my nose and I breathe in foggy air. Inside, I ignite.


She comes to me once again, holding her microphone on the side of a hill looking down at the beach. I do not scream.
                                                                          “What are you afraid of?”
The moon hovers over the sea
“Things getting worse.”

Somewhere out there, there is someone
who had a Creative Writing class in college
with E.L. James.

He remembers her
as that annoying sheltered Mormon girl in class
always telling people about how great a writer she was
and reciting her bad poetry
to anyone who pretended to listen.

He remembers fondly
the time she sobbed to her friends
because of the D she got on her final project
and the time the professor told her:
"Sometimes passion just isn't enough.
You've got to have talent too."

He knew that if he never made it as a writer
at least he could take solace in the fact that
wasn't as bad as that Erika chick.

After college, he cried weekly
over his mountain of rejected manuscripts
and eventually abandoned the pursuit of his art altogether
in favor of work that pays the bills.

Years later,
he comes home from work
at his 9-12 factory job
he finally, reluctantly, gives in to his wife's demands
to take up ******* in the bedroom -

- and Mid-****** she calls him Christian Grey

So, what I'm saying is this:
Somewhere out there, there is someone
who killed their loving wife in sudden rage -
because of poorly written Twilight fanfiction.

Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17

What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,

And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;

That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** *******,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.

Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****,
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.

Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.

The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’

I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******,
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.

If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,

My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.

We had ***, to the Bell Spelunking
Of Andy Bird, Saturday night,
And when I stuck your ****
Into aghast chasms you said
There was nothing. Tingles
Pinpricks on your spine.
You cannot feel me.

Outside your glass eyes beneath
Dark cool lenses, and I am but
A freshly born babe, clutching
My sexuality in greedy paws,
Bashing the shell upon my chest.
I bit your ****. You cannot feel me.
It bled. You cannot feel me.
I am distraught over years of wasted dental work
And twenty cavities.

You only feel me when I am ***** deep
Brushing the holy grail of slash fanfiction
And in reality it's a messier, uglier
Business, and I don't know, I am a newborn,
I am a newborn, I was just born today
As a sinful lump of flesh, as
A lump on the log of love,
And we can never be married and
You cannot feel me.

ive heard that
to be a better writer
you have to read
at least as much as you write

but you cant sit around
and read fanfiction
written by a 12 year old
and expect to be
the next john green
you have to read pretty good books
to have better writing

i think ill read
the holy bible
and the quran
and the torah
and any popular religious texts
because if they have gained
billions of dedicated followers
world wide
they must be pretty good

I stared into his teary eyes. He hurt me, he really did. And yes, the pain haunted me, it still does. But when he wrapped his arms around me and told me how much he missed me. How much he loved me. How much he is sorry. I went numb, sensing the familiar touch. The familiar warmth of his love. A smile crept up my lips as I realized what I was holding. This fragile, delicate boy. The boy that sent my heart on a marathon. This **** that I love. No matter how dark my nights were. When I heard his words and felt his lips, I finally saw the horizon.

wish, wisely,
on this elegant night, and I will grant, draining your fright.

let the moon, shine as bright as your soul, and let you play your deserving role.
don't be arrogant, don't be bad, or this honour will be something you had.

make it worth the moment tonight, and I will end your painful fight.

it doesn't start with me or the moon, it certainly starts with love and you.      
so for once in life, I speak out these words, memories might and can forever be blurred.
                but this event won't be a second or third.
it will be first and last, thus it's up to you to write your chapter and make it a blast.

A writer's glory
Is a quick thing
Never does last long
Shorter than the time
I've spent writing
The novel in my mind
First page written
Plot half finished
But enough about that
A writer's glory
As fleeting as it
Can be
It is a glorious
Feeling of
Triumph
of feeling like
That your words matter
But then you
Realize that
what they love
you can not
Write another single page
It's sad really
They've forgotten
What you wish to write
I bet you have too
I've spent so much
Time too much
Time
Writing fanfiction
A terrible plot
Wraps you up
In the
What ifs
I can't bear
That anymore
I want to
Write about
What I want
And when
My glory fades
I'll be okay
I know that now I
know nothing
of life
And the way it should be
So goodbye
Writer's glory
I will not fall
Under your spell
Because after
Every glory
There is always a
Tragedy

Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I simply need that connection I have with
My friends, the ones who I don’t get to talk to
Often, that have all but disappeared from
My life, but I can still see them on the screen.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I like to read stories and poems,
Browse the Internet’s fanfiction,
Write my own works, and receive feedback
From friends and critics alike.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
I just worry about the people I care about,
Wanting to know where they are
And what they are doing;
Not unlike the protective nature you have with me.
Mom, I’m not addicted to my phone.
Sometimes, I just need to check the time.

Shut up people
Just leave me alone
Let me zone out
And read until I feel calm

You push me
I freak out
Here we go again

I know I’m gonna fail
You don’t have to rub it in

I expect to fail
Don’t you see?
That’s just part of being me

Shouting won’t help
It’ll just make me freak
Thanks for making me panic again
My anxiety is really fun to deal with for me
You think I can do this
But I really really can’t

Sure I’m smart enough
But that ain’t the problem
What do you think my tolerance level is?
I’m not invincible
Far from it
And stress is a real *****
Stress leads to anxiety
Is that really such a twist?
Anxiety leads to me panicking
Ain’t that just lovely?
And panicking causes more stress
No duh
And the cycle begins again

You thought I could walk into a mega church
5,000+ strong
I don’t know how you could think that
When I panic in a room full of 2,000- strong
And I knew at least half of them
You say I’m fine at RFK
But that’s completely non-sequeter  
Because it really isn’t the same
Sure there’s way more people
But the environment ain’t the same
Cause A, it’s a DC United game
B, I know the lay
C, I know the people
D, I know the players
E, I know the rules
F, I don’t have to keep quiet, I can yell and rave and swear
G, if I panic I can go somewhere
H, I don’t have to watch the game
Or pay attention to center stage
I have neighbors all around
All I gotta do is turn around
And say hi
How are you?
My name’s Julia, whats yours?
Well nice to meet you George
Do you like to write?
Yes, yes I do
I write Fanfiction, how about you?
I, I don’t feel like I’m in a cage
J, I do panic, I just don’t panic as bad
As I do in a loud room
Full of people I DON’T KNOW
In an area I don’t know the lay of
Or know how the people act
Where I can’t distract my self
Where I don’t know the routine
When I have to pay attention
To a dude up on a stage
That I’ve never even heard of
K, I know the routine of everything at RFK, I know the chants, and the rants, and the yells, and the smells
The rules and the cools of social interaction
The do’s and don’t ‘s of stadium reaction
So don’t say that RFK, Which feels like home by the way
Is anything like a Megachurch in Arizona

You tell me to try
And I try
I do
So don’t say I don’t
Because it really isn’t true
But I can only go so far
Before I fall apart
Because life, school, and stress
Try to tear me apart
So me being lazy
Is me trying to hold myself together
And it ain’t really lazy
When I write, and I read
And sometimes I bleed

So shut the **** up
And leave me alone

I spend
Fictional money on fictional things
Because I am more fictional than I am real.
Because I feel alien, like I am not of this world.

And I make
Digital purchases in digital worlds
because I've been living in one since I was three.
At least my cage had a dusty old computer.

So often I wished that I could climb inside
to be with the sparkling gifs, and neon dogs
and people whose names I did not know.
They too, were aliens, not of this world.

Maybe we all live in a poorly written fanfiction
or a comic littered with jpeg artifacts
posted on deviantart in 2007
and abandoned to rot by our god.

Maybe someday, she will pick me up and dust me off
and protect me from all those who cringe
at the juvenile creation of just another moody artist
of just another sad internet poet.

That feeling
That I can't describe

When I know someone is genuine

It's physical
And emotional
It's happy
But calmly
Without any flourishes
Or bubbles
I feel it in my chest
A feeling of connection
It's...warm?
Not quite the right word
It's lukewarm
But bright
And roundish
Kinda like a sphere
Sitting next to my heart
Centered in my chest
There's love
But little magic
It's pure
Unfiltered
Connection
When I think of someone's face
I see open eyes
Open to watch another
But not wide with shock
I see a small smile
I hear a voice
Clear as a bell
And indeed
I think of pure
Golden bells
Not twinkling
Not ringing
Just a single
Unbroken note
I think of gold
Or is it orange?
Yellow?
Orange with a yellow halo?
It's energy
But not radiant
Not growing
Not destroying
Not dark
The feeling I get
When reading a classmate's essay
Or reading a good fanfiction

All this
Does not capture the feeling
But at least I tried my best

The return of the wolf-
Apex predator back on these streets, all these fat little pigs rockin bad words with dusty thoughts- writing loud like their Stephen King elites.
That's a work of fanfiction, you write shallow and brag deep but deep down your soul is only surface level.
I came back to my roots to check up on the place, came back to find a million fake poets tryin to run things like the topics they write cause heat.
You're lukewarm at best and I know you can't think this fast so I won't wait for a reply.
While you're dyin to rhyme I'm dying while trying to produce something new to me.
While you live in your comfort zone and write about the troubles of the world from the safety of your home- you want to impress but don't want to offend, no wonder all your thoughts have been said before by better.
You wanna be down with the street, you wanna be the thinker o the block- problem is you're just a little read writing in this hood.
Out in the deep woods where the words run thick apex thinkers act like scavengers to stay hungry so we don't lose edge.

Pigs get fed, hogs get slaughtered. I'd rather be a truth speaker and free thinker than a fat cat who soul'd out to the biggest fish on the market.

Laid to Rest



Finger on the trigger, hand on the pen.
The romantic say words are stronger, sword is weaker then.
I felt like I’ve been laid to rest sleeping in my artistic grave, chipping away at stories and poems because the urge to create is back, I came from the Cali now I’m southbound and down but this desire to ****** a page got me feeling like Wes Craven- satisfy the
Rage.

Stephen King wrote that and what a tragedy it came true too many times to be fiction, may as well be taken like dictation, how many more shootings can happen during a pandemic?

It’s enough to make me sick, enough to drive me to the edge to drink, stomach sick, heartbroken, ***** in the sink.
On the brink of society based depression, aggression up, suppression up, but the pressure keeps locking me up, draining my energy so all I’ve got to do is sleep deep and hope that tomorrow we get some sanity back.

Books hardly sell, like a doomsday preacher, street sign apocalyptic prophet I stand in the town square and yell.

Bullet based precision, but I spray like an AK, the finer points I use a ballpoint ****** rifle so I can pin the point I’m making and then I throw your bloodhound comprehension off track with a reference, so I move from A to B then loop around and connect the dots, you’ve seen it before when I leave these fanfiction writers in chalk.
Chalkboard like I take em to class, call me the Professor cause I’m giving out F’s.

I feel like I’ve been laid to rest to early, but I only laid down to recharge my batteries and the years flew by without me working, I was burnt out of thought, now the gears are turning.

I wrote six books in two years, released five, then repelled three. Now I’m working on two more with plans to republish and release all of them. Plus, I fell out with friend and in love with a former stranger, I lived through the ongoing pandemic plus a freak snowstorm, now I’m back to the grind, climbing out of the grave to soldier down in the social trench, this battle is on, meanwhile you’re still stuck on title page one.

I gave you all the tools to work, told you how to sit down and motivate and self-publish, you sat around and waited for me to show up again, superman- I know when I’m needed.

A writer writes. Take notes class because once again I’ll wade through dark and deep waters to show you how again.

Mr. Masked man is back, the boogeyman of the page, the masked anti hero who writes as much as he raves, and I don’t chug whiskey anymore, now I sip and take my time to enjoy the finer things in life, but I still got these wolf teeth and a savage bite, predator of the poem, 87 skin you alive.

Headhunter, spine collector, trophy killer, broken *** writer with the addiction to fill pages with words until it reads like the dictionary drunk off punk rock and Beethoven- blurred.

Sole dead brother, gentle mother in the downstairs at Sequoia
I'll never forget those towering cedar, that curling oak, leaving Graw's knuckles raw on a lawnmower in Homosassa
The peppers are growing out back on Sawyer now and things are getting less rocky
The days are less stocky, less full of lumps, there are still slumps, but we keep moving
The strong stuff is soothing but I'm losing a piece of my soul
at least I don't feel that way with a bowl
A slant of words over fanfiction love and D&D plots
A spilled spot of paint on your eisel, sending words as if by magic spell, fluttering hands
The rhythm in the sand, a cross band of constricting conflicting chaos catastrophes copied
A hot sheet, hot meat, wrapped it, in cellophane, plastic

I asked her
Do you like me?
She replied.
I’m not a dog person.
I was so stunned
But also amazed that she was forthright.
I wondered if she had a type
The only problem was, that it was out loud
And she heard it.
She turned around
And told me good
Saying, I am a Type A personality.
You are the type that would type fanfiction at Starbucks
And hope that there is Internet there
I thought, Wow she knows me.
She walked away.
I guess I was better off.
I’m happy I did not tell the whole truth
Of who I am.

Look at us go. A gang of four awkward-toothed boys dragging our red bread wagon around. Hometown heroes with bouquets of flour. For a little green, you can slice the cellophane. Yeast in your nose and warm butter dripping.

Biking down Delaware. Left on Broad. Autumn’s vermillion blanket on the ground. John Deere and Orson Welles. Maybe in some fanfiction they were ******* behind the Casey’s General Store. Turning the soil to bury secrets. There’s an art in that. The rottweiler’s snarl is pulled back inside as the door closes.

My cousin lost an eye and I saw it floating in a jar like a marble on his nightstand. When it snowed I wondered if he only saw half of the flakes.

Before you left we each took a sharpie to a dollar bill: “FRIENDS 4 EVER”. Thirty years later it’s still tucked away in a little white box with a Michael Jordan valentine and mirrored blue marble. Something plucked from my childhood and I only remember half of it.

I found an old letter I wrote to you. November 8, 1993. 11:24 a.m. Nineteen minutes after my grandmother died.

“I miss you and hope that I can come visit sometime”

That winter was lonely. I climbed our sledding hill in my moon boots and as I looked across the tundra, I thought: I’m the last hometown hero.

“Ever since you left things have been pretty boring around here and I’ve been stuck in my house reading books”

I flew down that hill in my plastic saucer. The wind pulling every tear from my eyes.

“My pictures are in the envelope, when you write me a letter please write neatly”

When my sled hit the curb on Ridge Road I swear I kept flying. I’d say I never looked back, but that’s all I’ve been doing these days.