Jesus Christ

sonnets for suckers

Are you who you want to be?

I mean at this very moment- right now, not tomorrow, not next week after you hear back about that promotion, car loan, that new jacket that you want but don’t really need but might go on sale during Easter weekend so why not, right? Are you who you want to be? Before what happens next- between the hours at sleep and the hours at work. You’re already thinking of that thing, yeah*? And once you have it or hold it or feel it or experience it, you’re just so god damn certain that it will provide a completeness that otherwise falls apart under prolonged scrutiny.  Will it finally satiate those tremors of jealousy that itch the back of your throat when you scroll through other people’s cherry-picked musings and snaps on social media? And does recognizing that you’re having those feelings bother you more than Julie’s album of her fifth fucking trip to Mexico? The one she uploaded like the goddamn second she got off the plane and found WiFi?  I mean she makes decent money so good for her- have fun, I guess- but go visit another fucking country, right?! You’re 38 years old and half Italian- go to Italy, Julie!  Christ. Or at least take photos of more than just your 9AM margaritas and the guy who fell asleep next to you on the plane. (And while we’re on the subject, those panoramic shots of you staring out at sea that you post every couple of days make you look like a fucking cunt, Brad**. Knock it off!)

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a degenerate’s manifesto: chapter 11

“He’s fucking my mom, I know it.” Foley finished his beer. Signalled for another.

Chris scoffed. “How can you think about something like that?”

“People fuck. My mom is people. Easy, man.”

“How would Jerry even know her?” Chris was often purposely aloof, always leading Foley by the nose.

“Cause I invited him over to dinner. She wanted to meet him.”

Jerry was the mechanic and body shop guy Foley was apprenticing with. He was almost sixty, battled gout, and made inappropriate comments about the underage girls who passed by on the way to the coffee bar a block over. Sometimes he’d wander out front for a cigarette, always with a wrench. He’d toss it to the ground. “Help an old man grab his tool,” he’d ask, and you knew he was referring to his dick because of course he was referring to his dick.

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