“I am basically dark and cynical” he said

as he shaved off his beard with

a twisted staple, a tuft of cream cheese,

an afterthought to soften the scrub.


“I would save my mother before my wife” he said

as he stepped into his ski boots and

took off for Finland—but not before he

he unplugged every wire and cable from the power strips.


“Things must end badly or they don’t end at all” he said

as he wrote his acceptance speech for the Pulitzer Prize and

packed his Astroglide inside his woolen socks, just before

he ate the last bit of Kimchee left in the fridge.


“I’ve been frying bacon since I was three” he said

and he never caught fire or slipped off of the stool

as he scrambled his eggs while his mother mothered strippers

and gangsters and left him liverwurst for dessert.


“I’m too fragmented to love and will only leave splinters” he said

as he pressed his suit, polished his shoes, and steamed his heart

before writing out checks for every subscription a year before they expire,

in case he does before they do.


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