"I’ll have it chaste with a dusk descent."
is your answer and you look almost normal on your driver’s license
48 years or 48 hours
the variables are loose and transposing on their own accord
the moment I’m slipping on, say, a pair of socks-
sometimes it’s:
yes, feet be praised, wrapped in cocoon they coo into boots
it’s all working at the output of 8 Musee du Louvres
other times:
the cotton engulfs the very first toe and I see white flares, big and little dippers
and the non-corporeal Iroquois rush through the walls signaling their hands aggressively
and something grabs a tuft of my hair snapping my head back and I feel sharp cold on my throat
a voice spits menacing questions in my ear and I ask aloud
"Is this all rhetorical?"
and soon
I’m attempting capitalism
standing behind you in line somewhere across the asphalt
admiring the shape and resiliency of your skeleton
I might tap and ask you what it is I’m debating there,
"Is it Monday or Thursday?"
lie
Jared is a Pittsburgh area native. He started writing poetry and short stories in his early twenties, almost as a kind of reaction: he was angry at the universe, but simultaneously obsessed with how absurd and hilarious it is to be sentient. Now that he's in his thirties, he and the universe are on better terms. In fact, they’ve become such great friends that Jared is now working towards a PhD in Astrophysics. Though, he still finds reality absurd and hilarious. If for some reason somebody wants to contact or bitch at him, here's his email address: jaredpaulphillips@gmail.com.
