open mic

One girl, about twenty or twenty-one, picked up her guitar and started playing "Personal Jesus" in a minor blues chord progression with a modified Bo Diddley beat, singing the lyrics the way Ani DiFranco would, in a clear growl meant to remind one of depression and anger. People around listened and thought about how nice it was to bridge the gap between conscious discomfort with the structures of organized religion and the misery of the blues, and talked about it with each other. One man came up with exactly, he said, what the parallel experience was-- that of slaves, turning away from the organized churches and making their own beliefs, but still being depressed-- and the people around agreed with him and dutifully quieted down, since it fit into their shared knowledge; besides, the song had changed, to "House of the Rising Sun," and the group had something else to think of, the revelation, or at least opinion for they were sure everyone's was different and equally valid, forgotten, as their attention shifted to the new lyrics.

Though no one's life had gone nearly so wrong as the protagonist's-- she went with a female voice-- people talked about their own mistakes. One had fallen in love with a boy from across the country, then fallen out of love, all between age sixteen and seventeen, and he'd been unstable, obsessed over her for months, then forgot about her as he found someone else. Another had been rejected from the same school his best friend was accepted into, and lashed out, alienating him to the point where he wouldn't respond to e-mails or text messages anymore. Another man took drugs, got caught, and was forced to admit to himself he'd been pursuing self-destruction ever since his parents died on the freeway. They commiserated, somewhat-- but all these were in the past, all remembered but like a trip to a foreign country that they would never see again and from which no one would emigrate.

sky

He stared outside at the pouring rain. Upward the power lines dangled down to the road shooting fireworks of sparks. The sky cut out black then white, grey again. He looked at the bracelet as it hummed warm on his wrist. He tapped it a few times. He flipped open his laptop and tabbed through the windows. He tabbed through the windows again, opened the door, and stepped out. It was black then white again in the sky, then grey once more. He walked through the puddle towards the line in bare feet. He grabbed the power lines. The bracelet froze and the sky was white for an hour.

Identity (remix)

I talked to a friend of
my girlfriend
and we made jokes
about

No Child Left Behind,
dog owners who don't know their own dogs well,
skinny theater girls,
and de Sade.

"de Sade as in the creepy guy
who did creepy things?"
she asked.

"de Sade as in the guy
who got sent to prison for silly reasons,"
I said.

The conversation ended eventually
and I was pissed off at everything.

otters

i am living in a medium-sized city of otters
i go outside and say 'hello' to the otters next door
they don't say 'hello' back
i walk to the college where young otters go to school
they take their classes disinterestedly and swim at the pool there
i order a burger from the otter with down's syndrome
i walk into the clothing store where an otter greets me
i go to the library where otters are chewing on books
i go into the bathroom
and unzip my pants at the urinal and start to pee
i turn left and see an otter
i turn right and see an otter
i look behind me
and i pee all over the otter standing behind me
'goddamnit,' the otter says

caffeine

It's pretty dumb.
Actually really really fucking stupid.
I was at home because I didn't want to go to class.
I felt bored and just wanted to be bored.
I wanted to talk to someone.
But there was only that creepy guy from the online dating site.
Another shithead, pretty much.
The kind of guy who's okay with dating people five or six years younger than him.
Because he's basically immature and wants to feel like he's twenty or twenty-one for the rest of his life.
Or he wants to feel like he's in control and can't deal with people his own age.
Which I think is bullshit thinking for him.
We're as mature as we're forced to be.
And there are twenty-one year olds who have to do everything for themselves, and twenty-six year olds who still live at home.
Anyway.
I got offline and started to feel better.
I started listening to the Dresden Dolls.
They've basically made a career off of people who feel like me.
When I stopped feeling like that I drank some Coke.
Then I drank some more.
I drank like a two-liter bottle of it.
And ate a few caffeine pills.
I wasn't bored anymore.
I started shaking.
I sat under the table and didn't stop shaking for a while.
So I went online and tried to talk to him.
I started typing in FULL CAPS, self-consciously.
Oh fuck I feel like it's coming back when I type "self-consciously."
He's in his class basically not paying attention.
I give up.
I get offline.
Drink some more Coke.
Take some more caffeine pills.
My hands won't stop shaking until I do something with them.
I start typing at full speed, just random letters after a couple of minutes, but there's some poetry there at first, yeah, pretty good.
I back away from the computer.
I look up at the posters of bands I liked, like Radiohead and Coldplay and The Shins last year.
I'm sick of them.
Actually I've been sick of them for a while.
They don't sound like what I like anymore.
I'm not looking for any easy sounds, give me something loud and pounding, like someone's stepping on their instruments because they're too pissed off to play them right.
If Thom Yorke and Chris Martin and James Mercer were here I'd punch them in the face.
I jump up on the bed.
And pull the posters off the wall next to the bed!
Jump from the bed to the desk!
Pull the posters off the wall above the desk!
Jump down to the floor!
Kick over the chair!
Throw the cell phone in the corner and watch the cover fly off the back!
I stop and look around at all the posters, the shit knocked off the bed and desk, the broken cell phone and chipped corners of the desk.
I lie down and just laugh for a while.
I laugh.

deva

She was at a reception in September.

Her professors, TAs, and classmates from a few classes last semester were there too.

Everyone looked normal; teeth straightened, breasts lifted but not augmented, limbs and torsos slimmed down or fattened up as wished.

One man grabbed his nose and ran into the changing room for fifteen minutes.

Deva was spotted.

“Hey there, Sara. How's it going?”
“Oh, great. We've got the next Context screening planned, all the hardware needed, we should get a few by the end of the night. We're in the black by about ten thousand too, so that just proves how much we've been in line with the Priorities.”

“Wow, that's great. What's school like?”

“It's okay, I guess. It's a little boring, but Architectural History is fun. Looking at pictures all day. It's great."

"Yeah, you know you want me back.”

“Yeah, we'd love it, but if you're still feeling bored, you know the Tertiary Rule. 'Boredom is, uh,'”

“'Sign of Corruption.' And all Contexts must be free of all Signs, and it's willful violation to show up.”

“I don't want to talk about this, that's depressing. How's June and Tris?”
“Fine, I guess, probably back together again. Who cares.”

“All right, be boring. I've got to go talk to Heather and get the drugs ready for Context. Bye, hon.”

She wandered past the changing room to go outside.

There was gagging and choking from the changing room.

She looked out at the city.

The city was glowing orange.

The sky was black and it was still hot.

The air felt thick inside and outside.

She got a call.

“Hi, Mark, it's good to hear from you.”

“Did you say yes?”

“No, but I didn't say no, I don't know.”

“No one's coming to kill you, just go again. It's fun.”

“I don't know. I'm bored. It's like I'm having some kind of existential crisis or something. I just want something new to believe in.”

“Aren't you atheist?”

“I don't know, I don't see the point of believing sometimes, and sometimes I don't see the point of being atheist.”

“What are June and Tristan doing these days?”

“You know, people talk about that a lot, what's going on?”

“I think people just like hearing about drama, but Tristan's my friend.”

“I thought you hadn't spoken to him in months.”

There was crying from the changing room.

“I don't talk to my friends sometimes, but I still care.”

“You talk to me a lot. You talk a lot in general.”

“To you, yeah, but I slept with you, you're a special and unique person.”

“That's sweet, I can tell you care.”

“Well, I hope you feel better, I've got to go.”

A man walked out of the changing room laughing.

He threw away a handful of napkins soaked red.

Back in the party, Deva heard Sara talking.

“...to overcome self-doubt and embrace success. You believe in God, you said, God believes in you, and wants you...”

as squirrels and chipmunks fly by me

while a beaver dam appears in the living room
and stop signs begin marching in protest
along with counterprotests by traffic lights
and the leaves on the trees grow heavier than the wood
while hot dogs have paper clips shoved into them
as I try to write "as squirrels and chipmunks fly by me"
when I get asked how to spell "license"
and the money in my pocket ceases to exist
along with the spelling of "money"
when the squirrels dig into the ground
and the stop signs are ignored
and I can see the cracks
and the ground tears away, breaking into whiteness, and I