Q. Thank you for being here.
A. You bet.
Q. You once said, ‘Art is that which shows a statistical anomaly in our reality.’ What did you mean by that?
A. Well, I believe it was Shakespeare who said… and please, I’m not… comparing myself to William Shakespeare, I mean, I’m not… as widely published as he was, or rather published for that matter, but I just feel in my bones that we were just very similar individuals and if he were alive today, I’m almost certain he would be the first person to agree with me.
A. Thank you.
Q. Ok. You didn’t actually answer the question. Or even give the quote from Shakespeare you began to introduce…
A. Yes but 99% of the time, you know what solves the problem?
A. Restarting your computer.
Q. I asked you a question about something earlier you had printed about the nature of art?
A. And I stand by that statement.
Q. Yes, but what did you mean when you said it?!
A. I actually… yes. I actually do not recall ever having said that. I… drink… a lot.
Anger or disaster. I look up too much to James Franco. I choose to write horizontal. Fuck vertical. Fuck American principles. Try to learn about the world. Experience true art. Like something James Franco would do. But in a less reality-celebrity-kind-of-way. Fuck the reality stars. The engines of the hell-bent bus. That can’t go below 65. Or else we’ll all explode. Light up the sky with star dust to star dust until we all die amen and forever and amen.
Anger or disaster. I look up too much to James Franco. I have a Seth Rogen at home waiting for me. There’s nothing in this called art. Only shapes forming something forming something longer that stretches on end to end longer and endless and horizontal because I meant it when I said it which was goddamn anything vertical to hell.
by her beauty.
to the sounds
of her singing
in her arms.
the universe tells me I’m free.
And I believe it.
Because in truth,
I’m enslaved to it.
The monster left its vomit on the rug
I see its shadow
Dart from room to room
We hear its shrieks
Which keep us up at night
Nothing satiates its appetite
It wants more and more and more
We figured the only way to destroy a monster
Was to find a bigger monster
Which we did
They became friends
Teamed up against us
Destroyed the apartment
Left us hanging
With no possibility of a security deposit
They think they’re great now. The pineapples.
The two of them. At the bar. Belting over in laughter. At everything each other is saying.
Then I hear it.
Those privileged entitled elitist assholes. Slamming their morning proseccos. Their shrill tone automates itself through imitation in my head.
“REMEMBER WHEN OWLS WERE COOL?!”
How can they just say that out loud? I’m only WITHIN EARSHOT sitting alone chain-smoking in the corner. Maybe they truly believe that I , this depressed forgotten meme of 2014 doesn’t matter anymore. My feelings. My thoughts. My cuteness. I guess those things were only important in 2014.
Now these sophmoric pineapples were calling the shots? Fuck these guys.
“REMEMBER WHEN OWLS WERE COOL?!”
They cackled over that one. To make it worse, the millennial couple sitting next to them actually tore themselves away from their Pokemon Go to shoot a look of approval, then cheers-ed them with their own glasses of proseccos.
Laugh it up pineapples, I think, as I sip my glass of Yellowtail merlot. Your day will come. These punks will turn on you fast and when they do no one will even remember you existed.
Waiting for Godot
By way the G Train
A woman flirts with a man
Across the tracks
Exchanging winky faces
I mean goddamn Godot
It delays and I can’t tear myself
From the scene of this romance
As they perhaps are finding
I enter the horde at the front
A lineup full of IRL emojis
Faraway a woman is yelling at hoodlums
Screaming she’s triple O-G
Godot you devil
Delay delay delay
We are all quickly pacing slowly dying
Until finally it arrives
On the G train
We are all the extremely earnest type
A man with a wooden leg is harassing passengers
Singing impromptu ad lib reggae songs
Swinging a milk carton with change for melody
Stomping his peg leg as a metronome keeping time and rhythm
A drunk mom gets on at Clinton-Washington
Pushing her toddler in his flimsy stroller
As she moves and dances to her phone
Using the stroller as her dancing partner
The reggae man finishes his song
Yells for change to add to his milk carton
Shames us for our ignorance
Screams it isn’t right how the people of a city
Doesn’t look out for its own
And because of our heads bowed in silence to our cell phones
Says he will most likely steal Kind Bars from the next Duane Reed he sees
The woman who was triple OG is still lecturing the wanabee hoodlums
Saying don’t step unless you can represent which it becomes obvious
The teens cannot understand
The reggae man finishes his speech hiccups and stumbles through
Finally exiting through the doors that connect to the next train
The goddamn G
A commotion moves around me
I hold the bar where I stand tightly
Waiting for Godot