Me: A group of butterflies is sometimes called a kaleidoscope. Fuckin beautiful.
Friend: A group of Star Trek fans is sometimes called a convention.
Me: A group of Doritos is sometimes called a bag.
Friend: A group of demons is sometimes called Legion.
Me: A group of sheets of toilet paper is sometimes called a roll.
Friend: A group of mashed potatoes is sometimes called mashed potatoes.
Me: A group of minutes is sometimes called a lunchbreak.
Friend: A group of snowflakes is sometimes called snow.
wow this is fucking historic as fuck i can’t believe im seeing this
Sentences are bodies—you can hit them
with a car and sometimes they survive, but they have hearts to
snick. Wordplay can be violent, like dislocating
a rib. Like pulling the drum off
a turkey and putting them elsewhere.
Imagine the sentence as the carcass,
the resistance and giving of flesh,
then sticks breaking.
by the train tracks cracked old granola bars
with shaking hands— no fire today.
Even the forest shade was hot. The train’s distant whistle was
a sad shout snaking through the Pocono valley,
its metal body close behind. Disparate doesn’t mean different.
it means they can’t be compared. I think it’s like…
A howl, Flynn said. We’d discussed before
last night how we would be fine, but he still
told me he loved me, twice, somberly slapped my palm, and he was
so sweaty our hands splashed.
Here it came. His right pant leg was stained
all the way down from weeksold coffee. To the tracks
he went. He scratched his beard and I thought he looked just
like my father. The train chugged and rumbled
closer. Howling. “Let’s do it,” Flynn said, hoisting his pack,
fumbling with the zipper. “It’s not gonna wait.”
Why does it feel like fall? What makes it feel like fall?
When we left the
restaurant, our clothes felt like
our organs. My boots and Flynn’s scraped the
burger joint parking lot. The door
closed behind us. He adjusted his backpack
constantly. Idaho August wind
wound through Flynn’s beard, which proudly surveyed
the mountains. He kept his distance from everyone
but me. He shared this distance with me intimately. We could smell America
wafting off the deep fat fryer behind us and mixing with the remnant
dust of Crazy Horse’s face paint, blown in from
just east. Flynn’s wrinkles deepened
and filled with it. He made me feel
like shit sometimes. He
messed with his
backpack’s straps—they still
wouldn’t sit right. We’d been on
the road for months, but we’d stayed
clueless. “Do you want to climb that one?”
Flynn said, his jacket sleeve pointing at the mountains.
I didn’t know which one he was indicating,
but I said yes. His wrinkles
were russet in the