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pending review

what kinda image might i be promoting if i can’t get rid of all the evidence that places me at the scene of the crime? in some clever way, insentimentos: afloofayloufuei, a-where? a-somewhere. you saw me coming when that question mark came up, a-thing.

…and aha! knew a guy bordering close, borderwing rewards, and on that particular day that cycled another year for him to guard past his… ummm. well, embarrasses and is a good for nothin’ sort, don’t________. naut. not. not~}k]. ooooh, awvYoH. he. when you can’t remember the proper designia, just say he. old school, retro. fashion recyvles every 20 years, when we just abandon a style to the point akin to burying someone we care about.  and in a blank wave of exhaustable gang of fly and sharpened exclaims of rejection…….! that crook, turned into a club. (eeeeerrrrrgh, the collective gathering of our times to shout, “pffffft” and roll all the i’s and ayes’ and eyes, and howoveruin, [he sits half on and off knowing those would only wrap him in an air of mysteriousness that smoulders in a shaking of the earth within and he wants to cry like a little girl and expect nothing in the way of meants to be gotten, only this line, this one coming up,; ‘justice called and left a message, “hmmm, @& par II\∠/Á=^\:.•
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“it’s kind a (5%27) of tU, things or §at[a’]wich’sunmeant coeurt’oOosi’lly.:*leakingjiszh@2:”;∑g≥wunesJv,Æi\—-/i3k{[|

. mistake lion for cousin in french, (he thinks, confirmation at a whim’s throe, and the mauling his silence shuts out the old guy with the bangs. i don’t think it’s that nobody has the heart to say otherwise, but that 3rd person POV where you’re watching yourself shun the only part of you left to leave. imagine being the one that steps in.)




tap tap tap
“stop tapping!”

so long
i’m coming, here i come
come on…
thirty three years
i been running in place.
i didn’t know nothing at first
at second glance i’m somewhere else
and thusly, i don’t even capitalize “i”
in reference to myself.

touched an old way i used to do something i still do today
right hand left hand

was like i dodged a punch from Regret
looked her right in the eyes
gave my half crooked smile
and said,
hello, old friend
we stood there, regret and i
he said i must be mistaken,
because he never forgets a face
we laughed.

i used to recognize
the backs of people’s heads
weird little trick i was given
like being double jointed
webbed feet
never forgot a face either

switch and lever

minded my time to foil dying nights
sad and runny my eggs
aren’t funny
and a sausage link hit me bet
ween the eyes when it fell from a low
fly in a patchy sky-die was tumbling
in from another word split from another time
nobody’s gon’ believe your horseapples
and you loathe with nothing to gloat about

poop poor pout pine pacing passers by
mediocritize your worth
and your f*ckin oddities multiply,
breathe and fly. Quickjest
draw and widows make
a pistol pulled in his father’s wake
trash only looks like trash until in it, slip

to die for a lie that i do not
lie for sense of anything bigger
anything smaller
than I could ever
hope for my cell for myself
and I
know rage
sacred and would eye this second
would I if I could,

i don’t care
that’s fine

soft autumn stairs

I saw the moon and remembered
when i hid inside.
I saw the sun in a puddle
and remembered shackles
I saw the hurricane and
hit the snooze
Alarms. A loom. A late. A goof.
A wait. A fool. Aloof balloon,
let go when we were children
strings like tails on kites,
one come home after so many
alarm clock check, where are my pants.


A vessel sometimes lent to let everyone else speak. Taken apart at night through intricate mental balancing. My life is left tattered because, my loved ones help and are held ransom if i don’t. my waking up, remembering gets easier when i question the ransom.

Not revenge classical. I’m only. I see. I felt. “when i get loose…” I suspect. They’ve seen some of me. Yeah, the boundary personal that’s been crossed. I’m some guy. Some girl. a romantic mad scientist flexing all the wrong reasons. My ethereal body, astral, soul-form. I wanted a team, i’m more dangerous on my own. denominations, quotients, sum- “when i come back…” …I never left. Dust, an end… i’m there too.

Invisible, flick ‘o the wrist. My smile, my burial, my birth, my children, my memories, my life – my love will kill everyone soft, sweet and swift. Take a drink, smoke that stoagie because you already hurt. Listen. Tick, tock are my approach and the space in between i smell the flowers and trample the pavement. I see.


i was hoping to cheat and remember who i am after it was all over. sort of already in mid flight with a target vaguely visible and a hailing from something roundlike. ‘i’ve lost’ isn’t specific so much as it’s a short label for that already flying feeling. eventually a smack, but that wind and whistle and taking in the blur of the scenery best i could before i even realized i was doing it. am i an arrow? the distance closing in? the archer? the mark? where i once would have reveled in pondering possibilities i weave through in a blink like it’s the back of my hand. then i pause and moss grows on why the back of my hand is the back of my hand since i see that side more. rolling with it because examining the other side closely has left me cautious for dinner.

who i am. that’s a riddle like trying to find where the shot came from. admit something. no idea what but it’s like a riddle or puzzle everyone is trying to figure out like a password or secret code only those in the know, know. a river of  i dunnos pushing one way. like time. like the closing gap.

I wanted someone to pull over and say, “hey, can i give you a lift?” and have no idea i was in one of the longest walks of my life. of course it had to be a cute girl. she had seen me walking the same path still on her way back from something she had gone to. because at one time, i wondered why girls didn’t do the asking out. maybe i did too much. and this path was a fluke anyway so i treaded on thinking it’s just today. i wouldn’t know why she picked up a random stranger but an overly kind way of speaking with me would’ve told me she needed something along the lines of kindness. secret sadness and a hitchhiker secretly nerve-wrecked and loud because she was pretty. that’s why they called me funny, kinda. my jokes weren’t the classical type. it was more of a, please cheer up. i was always kind. as long as i’d have wanted the trip i’d say something dull like, hey would you like to do weird stuff with me sometime? like it was an extension of my faith and trust in another. the funny guy is also a fulltime job and chances at romance are slim. the usual, please- i’d overthink a text and the time lapse and wonder if i should do something weird like call them, while factoring in how she’s also going through a sort of thing while i was being smothering because i’m nervous about making the wrong impression as myself. of those attempts, i can count easily.

and like getting workers comp, something changed. i didn’t want to try getting girls anymore because it was so hard to get weird with me. that kinda fulltime job was laughs on the scene, but took much alcohol and drug abuse from being cowardly. and i never once used the word coward in a belittling tone.

i was a legend alright. but for stuff i don’t really remember. i even wore glasses like a prop to show i’ve grown and matured and would like to adult the fuck up. nobody bought it, so this is what happened instead.

i live vicariously through my imagined conversations with women and sometimes i even pretend i’m coming home to one when no one’s around.

i feel it you know. that’s like a straight shot, bulls eye when i’m charging and just like that, i’m a train. i heard once somewhere that we aquarius’ are always a good time with everyone but when we weren’t having it, everybody knew. some times, i felt i wasn’t being a good person if i wasn’t being the funny guy.



12 was a common number to round things off to. in a general sense. a dozen. the surrounding numbers didn’t have that, a nickname like a dozen. a dozen eggs, a dozen months in a solar year… that last one technically counts but isn’t as common as it reads. a dozen hours in a day, on the face of a clock. i wonder if that’s because it was just a natural fit or because it was natural to stop before 13. i don’t know why it’s considered unlucky number. there’s so much mythology behind numbers that maybe stories were created to talk about the numbers. what if stories were teaching us math instead and moral lessons came as a by product. you know that feeling when hearing a story and how it reminds you of something else? or story archetypes? hero gets the girl in the end, is a phrase often mistaken as a regular thing. but just summarizes a part of our upbringing. I wanted to be a hero. who didn’t?

I really enjoy science and science fiction, but i wasn’t very good with math growing up. it didn’t seem like something i could get better at. math is cool as heck! when you see it do its thing, but i couldn’t see why there were people that called it fun. it was something else i like a free pass at not trying something to see if i liked it. like veggies. i liked veggies when i got older. I like science -fiction more when i got older. people have adverse reactions to things they didn’t understand. I count with my hands still. thinking back on my math classes growing up, i think it was how everyone finished off a problem with, presto! and i felt dumb because i couldn’t see how easy they did.

I remember i thought it was the coolest thing when i met somebody that knew the 13th multiplication column? I wonder if anyone else feels strange that i don’t see ‘the 13th Doctor being a phrase floating around. instead the original just does a last second cameo and doesn’t seem affected by meeting the 12th. time, man. i keep an analog watch and use military time because it’s the laziest way for me to show i didn’t give up on math completely! plus it made me feel cool and different, as if anyone cared. but, oh well.

waiting for the next hollywood remake to come out and numbers are like, times infinity.
math rocks! posters with the cheesy graphics and a pencil stabbed in a wormy apple, is what i picture when i remember math class.

The word necessary, when i learned to spell it without thinking about how many c’s or s’s went where was a very proud moment for me. but i still don’t know the i before e except after and when it’s this and that rule.


I had to wear a school uniform along with all the other kids in all the grades leading up to high school. High school didn’t have a uniform dress code. The other boys all wore clean and hip clothes that looked like they were from the same place, and mostly talked about girls. That was like, their code. The girls wore bell-bottom jeans mostly or tiny shorts or tiny skirts. In the last grade, some of the girls starting taking to hiking up their uniform skirts, but that was against dress code because shorts or skirts weren’t allowed to go higher than 3 inches above the knee. They’d pull them back down when they got scolded, only to hike them back up when the scolder left. That was their code. There wasn’t any of that kind of silliness in the rules to stop them here. Then there were the weird kids that dressed differently because they wanted to be the only person in the world to dress the way they did. They splintered off into different factions of kids that all thought they were the only ones that dressed the way they did while saying bad things about anyone else not like them. That was their code, too. I didn’t know where they sold the hip clothes; I didn’t ask, but I was sure my mom didn’t either. I didn’t want to be the only person in the world that was like me either. But no one could find out because no one talked to me because I wore my school uniform. My school uniform from last year, I mean. There was a faction of us that wore our uniforms, but we were spread out like were were one-man armies. I couldn’t ask if they felt like one-man armies like I did, they probably did, but we didn’t talk to each other like the other factions. Nor did any of the other factions talk to us. I think the radio silence was supposed to be our code.

My uniform polo shirt had gotten tighter around my belly. I sucked in my stomach whenever anyone else was around. Especially girls. I even had to start slouching so my chest would look less like the some of the junior or senior girls’ chests. I ate when I wasn’t hanging out with anyone because I didn’t know what else to do. I wasn’t hanging out with anyone, a lot of the time. My growing belly resulted from my boredom. It wouldn’t bulge in front of me as bad though if it wasn’t for my pants. The seat of the pants were to small for my seat this year. I had to lie down in order to hook the two ends together. I wished I could look like I was lying down whenever I put my pants on. They were tougher to put on after P.E. because there wasn’t a safe place to lie down inside the bathroom stall. But once they were on, it made my lower part look smaller. I thought that was good because I was glad a part of me looked smaller. My polo shirt, now no longer white, stretched, but my blue uniform pants had my back, my backside too.


Kittridge High School Academy was about a decade old. Newly formed and originally re-enrolled with nearly a third of the students that attended Hornby High School, and thenceforth, split the district. They also took the 8th grade graduating class of Lawrence Preparatory and a few others. Hornby High School had overpopulated classrooms, and a big problem with delinquents. Gang violence and graphitied walls from buzzed haircuts and baggy jeans. H.H.S. didn’t have a uniform policy like K.H.S.A., but the third of the students that were taken didn’t seem like delinquents anyway. They weren’t as savage looking, nor did they look like they were in gangs. Like the cliched popular high school kids in some movies. I’d even heard that K.H.S.A. had received a 20 million dollar grant for construction and education programs because one of the departments exceeded expectations and others showed tremendous promise, or something along that line. I even felt a bit fortunate to be enrolled. But it seemed like K.H.S.A was life raft of survivors rowing away from a sinking H.H.S. I liked that idea, I thought as I looked at the newly built clock tower during break period. It read two minutes til the bell. I ducked back down and quickly scarfed the rest of my lunch beneath the bleachers. Pizza in the shade. I was a survivor.


I could go a week without showering. My parents weren’t home enough to force that habit on me. When I was younger, they’d bathe me in hot water. Boiling hot. I’ve only used cold water to shower for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t as though the cold water was preferable to me, it wasn’t, it was freezing and sometimes it even hurt. It was because I felt like I couldn’t trust warm water from the shower head. Warm was closer to hot than cold was, which I considered to be the warning temperature of the water that I’d bail the shower from. If it was warm, it could switch into scalding and hit me before I could escape. So I safely used cold water instead. I easily went a week without showering.

I turned on the cold shower one evening. Unbuckled my belt and my size 34 khaki uniform pants fell straight down. I had stopped wearing underwear because there wasn’t any danger of uninvited hard-ons in gym class anymore. I pinched my socks off with the toes of on the other foot and took off my white uniform polo shirt, knit-vest with it. (The vest was optional, but made my tits less noticeable.) I soaped my body, arms, shoulders, pits, the whole belly, ass, flanks, and feet. I rinsed in quick circles while squirting shampoo onto my hair, then rubbed my whole scalp into a bubbly foam, then rinsed that too, before I shut off the water. The process took no more than 7 minutes, (I timed it several times with the watch my dad gave me.) and always watched the dirty water and the bubbles escape into the drain. I was freezing but I always wanted to watch that filth escape before I grabbed my warm towel. During the shower I took that evening, was when I noticed it. Protruding an inch and a half, squiggly, thick, dark brown; my first pubic hair. But all I thought was, “what the fuck is that!?”

Forgetting to dry-off, I quickly struggled my dirty clothes back onto my body in a wave of anxiousness. Suddenly, I started taking off my clothes again. I had no idea what it was, or why it was on my body. I sat on the toilet seat cover and examined the pubic hair. I didn’t know what a pubic hair was because I had missed the Sex Education class in the 7th grade, nor did I receive the talk from either of my parents. The hair looked like a terrifying mystery, pointing outward and off-centered from that flabby fat area of skin next to and above my dick and below my belly. It was a hair that grew an inch and a half without being noticed. My belly hid my dick from view usually, and my sad sight of a body, deterred me from looking into full-body mirrors. I didn’t beat off very often, just when I had my mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalog, but besides that I didn’t think anything exciting could happen down there.

I was scared. I didn’t know who to go to about it either. I decided remove it. I looped my finger around it, inhaled and exhaled a few times, held my breath and yanked the fucker out. It stung. Bad. My eyes watered, but not a single peep escaped through my gate of clenched teeth. I flushed that thing away like it was my shit. I searched the area around my dick for any stragglers. All clear. Everything was normal again. I dried off, put my dirty clothes back on and left the bathroom. I didn’t understand how anyone could enjoy a damn shower.


Fuck P.E. I hated that class the most. It was the class I was most passionate about. Richard Johnson, was my teacher, and he was so supportive, informative, and encouraging. He was irritating. I was 5’7” coming in at 180-185. I didn’t like standing on scales so I wasn’t sure. Dick, which was appropriately short for Richard, always cheered me on while the class did something physically strenuous. Well, strenuous for me. Like the warm-up laps. Sometimes Dick would run with me because I fell behind, as usual, and he’d shout eye-rolling things like, “Come on!” and “We can do it!’ and I’m thinking, Yeah, I know you can Dick, you do it all fucking day, dick. What a dick. The girls in the class (the class was hopelessly co-ed) all loved him. He was fit, nice, told dull jokes, and only the girls would giggle. He could have them all. I didn’t care about their mandatory sports bras or their loose fitting sweatpants anyway. Dick. I think johnson was another name for a dick.

It was a whole process, having to get up for school in the 8th grade. My alarm would go off at 7 a.m. and I’d hit snooze, and it would go off 5 minutes later before I hit the snooze again. But P.E. was my 0 period class of my freshman year. An optional period that preceded all other periods of the day. It showed me what my clock looked like at It was ugly. Everything looked ugly; milk in the cereal, toothpaste, flipped underwear, blue yawning skies above a mile walk. All in my P.E. uniform because it was my 0 period. My day began in my P.E. uniform and ended in my P.E. uniform because wearing it to bed the night before would save me time in the morning. I didn’t noticed the smell after a while.

Everyone was groggy during that class so I didn’t have to make any conversation nobody wanted with anyone. Any talking would probably have been about how stupid the class was or how stupid a 0 zero period was. I thought the girls looked better without their make-up on, but it was obvious they didn’t think so. They looked the same almost, but some of them were nicer, looked happier after they caked them on at the end of class. The others still looked sad. I wondered about wearing make-up now and then.