Friday, February 26, 2021

2 Minutes. Go!

Literally, your whole life is making me gag. I need a new pencil. I need an eraser with a tip. Don't EVER say that to a fellow artist; it is so rude. I'm not even done, but this is looking not-as-terrible as I expected it to. Just promise me you won't react too badly to my drawing because I don't want to feel bad about it. I want to feel powerful, spinning and golden. I want everyone to follow me on Instagram. I want to work up to sly addictions and social climbing. 

Do you want to buy a print?

I don't drink almond milk because my father was an almond tree. A cow raped my mother, so I eat beef at every meal. Wash my car with milk. 

It's so irritating when people try to make a living, feed their family. It's not anything to do with you, we're just being funny people, having a laugh or two. I just want out. 


My car is so electric it's not even a car. It's an old Duracell battery that I glued skateboard trucks to. I don't use any natural fibers or plastics. I am going to stand naked in the middle of this forest clearing and just vibe.

Do you want to pay for my vibing seminar?

I want a president who has star appeal. I want my senators to have nice teeth. I want Chinese concentration camps and kids in cages. I'm into composting. 

Baby teeth will enrich the soil, right?

I just want to want things. Things I can't have, but can create a close approximation of with filters and funny camera angles. Do you mind if I lean against your luxury automobile? Just for one second? Tell all the thirteen-year-olds that it's mine. Blow that shit up on Social Media. Make myself real. Sell prints to rubes and noobs. 

So, do you want to buy a print?


  1. The limbs reach down into the clear water, and the sun skitters across the tops of the ripples. There is birdsong and melody in the branches and there are fish under the water, silver and flashing rainbow colors like the whole stream leads to one big pot of gold.
    You stand with your feet in the water and it takes your breath until the cold water numbs you. You are still in the slight breeze that lifts snatches of spray into your face when you pull back the fly line, let it unfurl behind you, and cast it out again, to find new pockets in the tumbling dark.
    There are places like this everywhere, and the fish can be books or cabinetry. The fly line can be a sewing thread or a length of yarn or a brief burst of chorus after a soft interlude. The spray will baptize you, and you will leave knowing how to fish, sew, create, live.

    The flap of wings lulls you into a false sense of security. You think there is safety here, but there is just this mad, frantic flutter – you could drown in dander and no one would ever know. They’d just wonder about the birdhouse. Wonder why none of the birds will come near it any more.
    Their claws and beaks are viciously sharp, and they will rend the flesh where they enter you. They will claw your thoughts from beneath the subconscious, smear your secrets on the fence for the possums to find.

    Beyond the reach of the recumbent limbs, the birds are gathering, building in strength and numbers. They are making new alliances and creating formations, murmurations. You think Ravens are the only birds who appreciate a good murder?


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