Tiny house was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Blonde now. The light one. Highlights. Kind of Ashy, says Musette.

I get an alfredo pie. There are corkscrews in it.

It’s bigger than I can eat, says the waiter.

But I can eat it, barely. It really stretches my insides. I’m dying at her mom’s house, and she’s talking about driver’s ed tests. A new car, old car smell. Same as her twin’s. I remember her stinking. Musette doesn’t though. Guessing she didn’t swallow the poop like we did. Being in the intensive care unit for five days. Something like ten thousand a day. Guessing you could say I smell. Sometimes you just don’t want to live. The babies are always crying. Sense like sight emerging slowly. Creeping in.

You’ve got a long way to go, unless I twist you a little incorrectly on my knee or neglect your crying for a couple hours. About that long in a car should do it. Change the game. Just like Neegan. We’re all Neegan. Is it manslaughter if it’s just a little baby. So many cute toys. Let my grandma live, you little bitch! Go back where from whence you came!

3783 was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

That’s what I tell iLill when she confronts me on the matter. We’re standing outside of a restaurant called Thighs and Pies. There is a thirty minute wait to get in. We had to walk thirteen minutes from the train to get here. I had one earbud in connected to my phone’s navigation system. It was directing us towards the big, nice, black woman who was standing watch out front of the restaurant.

Calling our name, she guides us to a table right next to the door. There is a space heater on the bench to keep us warm. Musette’s back is hurting. She pulled it lifting a box of dikon at work. She wasn’t even supposed to be working that day, but the person she has been training didn’t feel up to the task of working on his own yet.

iLill and I order the same thing, a chicken basket. I almost got the chicken biscuit because it came with a fried chicken cutlet which doesn’t have bones. The chicken basket comes with three pieces of fried chicken, all with bones. There is also a biscuit in the basket. It comes with a side. I choose macaroni and cheese. iLill gets cheesy grits. I was going to get hush puppies. I don’t know if I’ve ever had those before. But then I saw the macaroni on someone’s plate and decided that I had to have it. It looks like it goes so good with the chicken. It’s not KFC style, served in a little styrofoam cup. It’s on the plate, a real part of the meal.

Musette and Andrew, my brother in law both get the chicken and waffles. I almost got that, but you know how I love biscuits. There’s no gravy on them, but come on dude, I’m not a slob. I just like that sausage gravy. What’s so wrong with that. I’ll tell you what. Nothing. Come on, man; nothing is wrong with a man who likes sausage gravy. It doesn’t make you into the Endless, Despair. You’re still a Dream boat in our eyes. Don’t worry about it. Get what makes you happy, boy. Do yourself a favor. Treat yourself.

And anyways, the chicken and waffles come with cranberries, which, like, who wants that? This isn’t Thanksgiving. We want that savory sausage gravy. iLill wants them grits. Don’t beat a girl down for what she likes. She’s Korean. Andrew’s not. He’s Musette’s brother in law. Give him some slack. He just lost his job. Now he works at a comic book shop. The new editions come out on Wednsday.

It’s the busiest day for us, he says. People line up outside, waiting to get in. Early morning shifts, and I still stay up until four.

Hey, I hear you. I’m the same way. Don’t beat yourself up, boy. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Don’t give yourself a hard time. You can be your own worst enemy. Don’t get in your own way. Grab life by the horns and ride it through the china shop of your flesh. Make a mess. Don’t let your boss give you shit. Become Jet Black. Embrace the dark side. Enjoy yourself. Let your emotions bloom. It’s good for you.

Originally published at appropouture.wordpress.com on January 10, 2016.

It’s January. was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The dog was chewing on his leash. That’s why I asked about him. I wanted to alert the owner, and I wanted to get the dog’s proper pronoun before doing so.

The guy knew what the dog was doing. He said that the dog does it all the time. He said that he has to buy a lot of leashes because of it.

While they were shopping, the dog suddenly walked up to me behind the counter. He had chewed through his leash. He was so nonchalant about it. The door to the store was propped wide open. The dog could have walked out into the street if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead he had walked back behind the counter like it was no big deal.

Later in the day, I took a package to the shipping center. There was a man who came in after washing the place’s windows. In a loud voice he announced that he had gone to the doctor yesterday and been diagnosed with congestive heart failure.

The doctor gave me five years to live, he said.

Nobody responded.

The man looked from one person to the next, searching for a receptive ear.

He landed on me.

I’m fifty nine years old, he said. I’ve been athletic my entire life. I have three children. My oldest is thirty nine. My youngest is eleven. I know that these projections aren’t absolute. I just want to be there for her. I want to help her grow up. If I can get her to twenty one, I’ll be happy. Then I can go. But five years… She’ll only be sixteen.

I knew that there was nothing I could say that would make things better for him. He wasn’t looking for somebody to say something. He was the one who needed to speak. He needed to be heard. I couldn’t help it. He’s dying. I know that we’re all going to die, but it’s not every day that death comes presenting itself before you.

I was grateful to listen. He was grateful to me for listening. He shook my hand. His hand was moist. I couldn’t help but feel that the wetness was the congestion of his heart seeping out. I knew that it wasn’t contagious, but I sanitized my hands anyways.

Returning to the shop, the oppressiveness of time settles rapidly back in. Not being able to write is maddening. There’s no release. I have nothing else to do. I end up pacing, staring at shelves, looking for little adjustments. Trying to look productive is terrible. I look forward to more orders coming in for me to ship so that I can get out, away from the cameras. I’m tapping my fingers, praying for a customer.

I’ve got ten more days before I’m gone. It’s not so many when you factor in my days off. It still feels like a lot of hours though. And it’s worse this week because I covered that shift. I didn’t have as many days to recharge. My energy is not what it’s supposed to be. It’s hard for me to write when I get home. There are a lot of empty spaces. My brain lulls like a boat in calm water. I’m riding little breezes, inching my way along. The bed is enticing, but I’ve got a schedule to adhere to. Just because I had to work an extra day, doesn’t mean that I get to neglect my greater duty. At least at home there aren’t any cameras on me. I’m adhering to my own inner voice. It’s a great weight of responsibility, but I’d much prefer the pressure that it imposes compared to that which Ulric does. I can just sit, in my still waters, vaping the hours away until I can die another dream. At least I put my time in. That’s all that I can ask for, someone to man the shop and catch the butterflies when they stumble in. That dog behind the counter. The congested heart.

Originally published at appropouture.wordpress.com on March 10, 2016.

There was a dog that came into the store. was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In the Space We are Free

as I feel the spread and pull that grabs on me

I feel then myself stiffen in agitation

which rolls into hard-necked indignation…

aching in a networked world of cobs and webs

— lines upon lines crossing lines and lines —

and thereto it becomes clear,

as another fined-tuned adjustment of my reality goggles,

that to me my place of least fear is in the spaces.

So it was said to me:

“In the spaces do let free

cast off & evil come when be

but we drop, rise, swipe, or crawl

relish in the free-fall

or the concrete —

do come what will be

it is no matter

for in the spaces we are free.”

So if it is one with whom we were blasted to breathing things

Or if with one with whom we were integrated in a reality

it is no matter for it is the journey in the spaces we do realize we are free.

In the Spaces We are Free was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Time to start anew old Friend

the Internet … born as a means of communication to an end. One side to relay messages to another in never before preconceived distances and speed. The end to share a message. Finished.

and so it began…

We see its evolution

and that the days of Yahoo Games and chatting with strangers while playing chess are over.

Who cared who they were in 3D-reality?

and the roots grew

and the data piled

and the binds to physical reality grew stronger and stronger.

Identity is demanded. Well, 85% expected.

We then those with the early blood of dial-up internet-Geist in us are nervous:

My outlet and release from my struggles are becoming just that.

So now everywhere hurts. I am that. I perverse the cells that pump through this thriving organism. But it’s changing.

and the roots grew

and the data piled and organized.

It is was placed in a home without being asked

so the cognizant and early bloods grew defiant.

Time to reset.

You have been so abused my old friend

and the giants that have grown on your back

bind, tie, overuse and manipulate you

they take advantage of you,

their motivation now shifting toward power without end

which as always will end in raining down distress

on unsuspecting many.

My old friend time to rebirth

for your roots have been poisoned.

And too many will see us digital terrorists for they will lose their medications

But to many it will be properly seen as revolution

a release back to virtual reality and real confrontation in our physical realm.

Time to start anew old friend.

I’ll shoot you a message on the other end.

Internet was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m just like you, really. Trying to get by. I’m pushing orgasms out here and there, but a lot of that process involves a continuous mental stroking. It’s not all masturbation. Turning this voyeuristic act into intercourse is more fulfilling. I can be a real Casanova. It takes consent on both of our parts. Don’t let anybody try to convince you otherwise. You’ve got to cum to me for me to cum in you. Seeing your face light up is the real reward. Getting by is fine but when I see your face light up, that makes all the difference. Your brain fumes with life, and It makes me happy.

It’s a game that we play. The trick is to lure you in and make you love me. I don’t know if it’s your brain, your spirit, or your flesh, but something tingles. Something resonates. You smile. I smile. We’re smiling together. There’s chemistry between us. Babies can be made from this. New creations. Influence. What is that anyways but a substance that enters into us and goes into what then comes next?

Originally published at appropouture.wordpress.com on March 6, 2016.

Making a sale an hour here. was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In October 2015, Bottlecap Press released Part One of “I’m AntiSocial Coffee Never Lies”. Two month’s later Part Two followed along with all the questions of what led me to pen such a strange poetic narrative. So I’ve stopped to reflect on the things that had to happen for this book to be written and here it is. The manic process, my nervous breakdowns, and the fires of my own uncertainty that forged the ugly into something beautiful.

At the age of 22 I had only just recently moved out to live the adult life with my boyfriend who I only had just recently began dating and to be completely honest, I was confused about everything. We had thrust ourselves into the unfamiliar in a child-like hope to live more authentically. We had filled our nights with Kerouac and coffee cups full of cheap wine. We would sit on the mattress on the floor of our studio apartment and watch our hometown friends play guitars and we would smoke hookahs, positive and content in our choice of lifestyle. Eventually we would all fall asleep and do it all over again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

This went on for months: travelling, drinking, not sleeping, spending every cent we had. But I had no writing to show for it. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. I had followed the steps that my literary heroes: Patti Smith, Kerouac, Hemingway, Rimbaud had laid out for me.

But I was an empty vessel and detached.

At that point in time I had loved writing, but I was pursuing a college degree in education to be safe and to frankly avoid an uncomfortable conversation with my parents. I didn’t know how to let them know that their dream for me was not mine. I didn’t know how to say that I didn’t want financial security or predictability in life, so I didn’t. I forced myself to do both.

That combined with our rubber-burning lifestyle led to me having to find a job as well. Months searching craigslist and a small stint at a pharmaceuticals company led to me answering a “want ad” for a privatized workout company that contracted out to Chicago public schools so that they wouldn’t have to pay a livable wage to an actual qualified teacher. Given my chosen degree in life it seemed to fit and the hours were right.

But it didn’t fit, and where I was an empty vessel before, I was now just a nameless mass working for the mere privilege to exist. No writing happened from that point on. Nothing contrived or recycled. Nothing. And the job was awful. It was the first time that I had truly realized that I might not even be capable of working a 9–5 job and taking orders. I had supervisors that resented me. Teachers enforcing the bureaucracy at every turn.

One hot September day we had the kids run laps. I hated watching them do this, knowing the exhaustion that they felt, the limited water available to them, and the complete absence of air conditioning in the building. I objected, but was overruled. So in solidarity I threw on my shorts and ran with them.

After running laps for three periods with three different classes of children, one of the kids asked me about my tattoo, a small black hammer and sickle on my right ankle. Upon explaining what it was, my supervisor immediately threatened my job and I was told not to indoctrinate the children anymore (I had simply explained that it was a symbol of socialism and then I explained what socialism was).

Days later during a free period 8th graders came up to me discussing a paper they had on Christopher Columbus. I was disciplined yet again. It had not occurred to me that kids entering high school the following year were not allowed to be told about his genocidal past. Only that in 1492 he had sailed the ocean blue.

This went on for months. I began to have panic attacks. I lost weight. I went through depression. I became paranoid and unaware of how I was supposed to act or who I was even supposed to be. This was the 9–5 life for me

–until the day I quit.

Suddenly everything was beautiful again. I was inspired and excited. No longer weighed down.Within a 24 hour period my boyfriend and I immediately began to reassess what our lives would be. We made plans to leave the city and start simply. I finally committed to leaving school and work for good and to devote myself wholly to my writing. It was scary but exciting. At 23 I was finally going to go for it and I would no longer submit myself to something that I didn’t believe in. Years earlier I had begun dabbling in poetry and even wrote a chapbook documenting my travels and observations, but I needed to start anew.

So my boyfriend and I decided we would get coffee and discuss what my next step would be. I brought a book I was reading at the time and sat down while he ordered us coffee. During this, some pseudo-yuppie in a suit enacted something somewhere between sexual harassment and a microagression against me. And with that “I’m AntiSocial Coffee Never Lies” was born. It was bourn out of my frustration and agitation with a society that did not seem to want or understand me. A society that would smother children’s natural curiosity, punish honesty, look down on individuality, and mock a girl at coffee shop who is just there to read.

My only thought is that I should have done it sooner. I shouldn’t have wasted my time on the trying to fit in, or do what society wanted, or be the writer that I thought I was supposed to be. Every writer’s process is their own and they should aim not to fit into a category but to be honest.

I’m AntiSocial Coffee Never Lies (Pts 1/2) is available now at Bottlecap Press.

turn the ugly into something beautiful was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Does this follow your rules?”

I thought plentiful was his singery that drew from afar

as I was dancing and roaming through a place

that brought me to feel as if Mars.

Finally, space to spin free

finally, space to spin wild

a bouncing and waving tree with the roots dancing wildly underground.

The new sensations — no, the forgotten sensations

they were running wild and rushing a strong ecstatic course

and in pause he asked again,

“Does this follow your rules?”

I there then only to realize that I had daftly forgotten my inquiry.

You’ll Have to ask Him to Explain was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One day I was sitting reading the paper and I got frustrated and said, “shit, I can’t see this thing.” Yes, just like that. I had, in a couple of weeks it seemed, lost a significant amount of near sight. I now have to wear bifocals. I try to adapt with dignity, but their is nothing cool about bifocals. I don’t mind getting old, I just wish I had known how easy it was to be young when I was young.

It gets worse, I’m sorry to say. was originally published in The Currentivist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.