BULLSHIT LIT

We stay up late because it's the only time we have to ourselves like it is the only gap we get between racing speed traps and 9am to work and back, like it is the only time we have to be ourselves and dance covered in paint in your studio, or naked beneath the moon.

This one goes out to all the single moms who have shut themselves in their bathroom and are currently dancing to ska punk, middle fingers HIGH the fuck up!! This one’s for the moms who got six words into this poem before they had to jump up to wipe a runny nose, throw together a pb&j, put a band-aid on a booboo!!

Sleep, eat, shit—a mundane everyday life. Are you happy? Are you content? Have you found the meaning of life at the ripe young age of eleven? What wisdom are you privy to that a working human is not? But then again, you probably think it’s a new day every time you wake up from a nap. Do you understand me when I bark back at you? Have we unknowingly talked about jazz, or taxes, or your favorite recipe from Cesar’s Canine Cuisine? (I think it’s the bacon one, with the blue packaging. That’d be my favorite too.)

Well, he asked me what I was passionate about and I said writing, I'm a writer, and he asked me what I like to write about and I said oh, you know, everything, people mainly, the strangers I meet, the stories they tell, ~the tangled webs we weave~, and he said tell me, where do you meet these strange people with all their interesting stories?