aSoSS 32 | Skeptic

I don’t think any TV sold within the past six years has had any sort of DVD player in it…

Traverwood Library, 6:30PM, 9/11/2024

[an excerpt, or a cry for help]

there is small comfort in the whole truth, but there is no comfort in a half-truth, because your honesty is shielded by your shame. just because you can tell a story doesn’t mean it deserves to be heard. are you not shameful? we are growing old, novelty ripped out and replaced by convenience. perhaps i will write today, because there is also a small comfort in a whole lie, a brazenness mistaken for bravery. an undiagnosed feeling squirms in my stomach. it takes a lot of half-truths, a summation of sins and sorrows, to approach the mirror, speak the words–

You can drive for two or three days in Texas and not leave the state.

Yeah, it’s one of the biggest states.

Alaska is even bigger… look at that. Too big.

Pierpont Commons, 2:00PM, 10/31/2024

—it’s nothing, really, and it’s true, because nothingness–emptiness–inflames the mind and plagues the soul. i lick the envelope; it is empty for now, though it will carry the weight of a novel in its folds. i think of emily dickinson and susan gilbert, tongue and glue, attraction misattributed like an incorrect citation. the quote wasn’t theirs, did you know? it was written by carolyn forché. you are beaming. of course i knew, but i tell you otherwise because this is your moment, your gold nugget that you sifted from the crevices of memory. how would forché put it? tenderness is in the hands? that means–

But that’s just the way that I have to communicate with some of my relatives, just to let them know that hey, I’m still here!

Ann Arbor Thrift Shop, 1:00PM, 11/18/2024

–the heart is the toughest part of the body, though not for good reason. graphite needles puncture skin, drawing blood from vein to inkwell. you’re stationary–letters leaking, fingers bleeding, arms wound like a clock: forever crooked, never on time. the wire, peaked with clothespins, is slack and sagging. to allow for miracles, you say, even though you don’t believe in them. i believe in you, though. what does that make me?

to the right, the maxilla quivers. to the left, the mandible spins, closing the gap. hot breath, pulsing gums, the proof of life staring at you–do we make our own miracles?–as you stare back at the scythe, at the split decision–

midnight strikes. the gator’s mouth snaps shut. the clothesline pulls taut and the pins are falling, falling, gone.