Tuesday, May 31, 2011


i'm a wolf in a brick oven waiting for the door to open. If i'm gaunt and charred by then, which is likely, considering there's a bone in the air conditioner, kindly pull apart my jaws and remove Pennsylvania--a nuclear simmer--from my stomach.

Coca-Cola kids slouch in parking lots gambling for an endless summer. My veins swell; there's too much blood, and no place for it to go but my heart.


Fifteen punches to the stomach gave me an extra rib. Sometimes i throw it like a boomerang; it likes to come back and hit me in the face.

Nothing to do but throw, listen to records, and melt.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

a letter from the kids

The Pepsi machine opened into another world, and we all fell through.

Since then, we've been alright. We don't eat as many sandwiches as we used too, but we still spit from the top of the parking garage. Sometimes our spit touches the ground.

We read books with titles like "The Gay Science" and stuff liquor bottles with naked women. When the night is too bright, we drive to the field and roll our eyes in the mud. We saw a deer, once.

Alex lost his virginity to a deer. Her eyes were brutal. Afterward he said they smoked cigarettes. We like cigarettes. Cigarettes are alight.

We saw this play where the main guy's always smoking cigarettes. The guy's name was Tom, but his name isn't important. What's important is that he smoked cigarettes.

In the last act, Tom brakes his sister's glass horse before running out the fire escape. He really didn't give a fuck. Or maybe he gave too much of one.

Anyway, we're alright. I don't want you thinking we're not. Not alright, I mean. There's music and girls and stuff. Sometimes the girls make vegan muffins, which are like real muffins except better for you.

On this side of the Pepsi machine, every thing's like real life except better for you. You don't think so hard, you know? You still think about words, but words are easier to think about than sisters and neighborhoods.

We're thinking of getting tattoos. We don't know what we want yet, maybe a quote from some movie. We have an artist friend who says he'll do them for free.

You know it's alright here. It's alright.

Arcade Fire - The Woodlands National Anthem