IT WON'T LAST

Wake up. The sun streams in through the open window but you have seen it too many times now. It has spoiled you. Groan, wish for another minute in bed. Struggle to keep your eyes open, though you want nothing more than to let the darkness take you away again. Was there a dream? Maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t. You can never tell anymore. Vague images of an arranged marriage arise. She is not beautiful. But she is determined. Almost metallic. Was she speaking in Korean? You don’t remember. Indulge your heavy eyes.

Wake up, for real this time, seven minutes later. Nothing’s changed. Sigh. Leave the bed. As your feet touch the floor, reach for your glasses. They’re on the table, slightly to the left of where you remember putting them. You’ve done it again. Consider talking to the school counselor. Decide against it. Look at your desk. Look at this room. It’s a mess. Resolve to clean it up. Hear footsteps outside. Some idiot is going for the middle shower. Don’t let him. Grab a towel and two-in-one shampoo/body wash. Drowsily stumble out into the hallway. You see the door to the third floor bathroom close shut. Follow it. Another resident of Taylor Hall stands there. He’s pissing. You hear no dibs. Walk into the middle shower. Your competition is too tired to notice. You have victory. Shower.

Go back to your room. Glance with some anxiety at your mounting pile of laundry and realize that needs to be done at some point. Just not now. You have four pairs of boxers left; you’ll last until Saturday, thank God. Throw on a pair; pull on a clean white shirt. Grab your toothbrush and comb. Walk back into the bathroom. Someone has turned on music, something vaguely EDM-y. Ask the room what the song is. Get a reply. Make a mental note. Brush your teeth, making sure to place special attention to the molars. Gargle. Spit. Steal a swig of someone’s mouthwash. Gargle. Spit. Look in the mirror. Wet your hair again, and start to comb it. A little to the side, but with some lift. Wonder how you managed to get so good at fixing your hair. Allow yourself to question your sexuality. Conclude that you are still straight. Are you sure? It would make getting into college a lot easier. Look into the mirror. Black hair, yellow-beige skin, small dark eyes, and a lack of any interesting sexuality are apparent. The worst combination. Sigh.

Open your closet. Find a shirt you haven’t worn for at least three days. Oxford button-down? Yellow polo? Yellow polo. And…navy shorts. Boat shoes. Casually glance at the schedule you have taped untidily on your wall. French, English, Physics, Calculus, and Studio Art. Pack accordingly. You have a free period after lunch; remember to do your Calculus homework then. Your stomach grumbles. It’s too late to grab breakfast. Promise yourself you will wake up earlier tomorrow and eat. Ignore the twinge of skeptical incredulity.

Let the day pass you by. Go from class to class, alternating between frantically jotting notes and carefully articulating thoughts regarding the human. Pay attention, but not too much attention: Remember that there is social value to be had in appearing to be effortlessly brilliant. Remember to be especially bright in English; Ms. Kay is writing one of your teacher recommendations. Walk with friends. Walk alone. Eat a hasty lunch with people you don’t really know. Finish the day.

Remember that the spring barbecue is today. Entertain the memory of an almost sarcastically cheerful email that reverberates within your head now: Remember that our annual Spring Festival is today! Get your grillin’ on! Go to drop off your bag in your room. Trade your polo for the t-shirt underneath; exchange your Sperry’s for flip-flops. Use your deodorant. Put on a cap. Your favorite, the white one. Before you know it, you’ve found and joined your friends. Laugh when one friend jokingly tells you she hates you; sarcastically mock the hockey players with another. As the main event begins to wind down, look up and discover that the girl you have a crush on is walking around by herself. Put on your winning smile and go to strike up a conversation with her. Ask her how she is. Make an excuse to put your arm around her shoulder. The excuse doesn't have to be clever. In fact, the dumber the better; you'll come off as a lovable goofball. Whisper something, anything, into her ear. If she laughs, laugh with her. If she smiles, take your hand off her shoulder and ask her a serious question. She’s close to you now. Look into her eyes and tell her that she is beautiful. Watch the smile bloom across her face. Your heart is beating like an African drum, but your face is relaxed. You are charming, kind, confident. She smiles and says she'll talk to you later; her ride is here. Tell her you can’t wait, and watch her walk away. Catch her taking a quick glance back at you. Wave again. Grin as she blushes. Finally, shake your head and rejoin your friends. They catcall, and you realize that they have been watching you the entire time. Allow yourself to feel embarrassed. Be happy. Laugh. Smile.

The sun streams through the window. Struggle to wake.

MARCHING LETTERS

Joan's sword in her hand

My pen in my pocket.

Soldiers grimly march

I review my grammar. 

The footman forgets his helmet

I scramble for a calculator.

We are the both of us awoken

By shrieking alarms.

Neither of us has slept.

He sharpens his sword,

I memorize one more date.

Together we see our fates:

His, written in blood upon the green solemn field,

Mine, written in words upon the vast paper white.

There is a nervousness in the air

Singing steel and fading ink.

We tremble.

There is much to lose today.

EIGHTEEN PIECES OF FURNITURE

Eighteen pieces of furniture in the basement. 

Eighteen parts of a life left behind

In the musty basement of a prep school dorm.

There is a fridge, used for three years now.

There's a beanbag, donated

To poor,

Beanbag-less me by some senior.

There is a plastic drawer

Filled with band-aids never used,

And rusting letters from home. 

There are books

Upon books,

Upon books. 

I should throw some out,

But they're really kind of beautiful.

Things wouldn't be the same without them.

So I won't.

Crates,

And shelves, and

Plastic boxes.

Rotting away. 

Lonely-like. 

AROUND

You always mentioned that one day you'd be in the ground. I'm not sure if you meant it literally. But, well, here you are. You lousy son of a bitch, you. What am I going to do without you? You freakin' goon. You...

I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss you a whole hell of a lot. It wasn't that you was one of those people that suddenly changed my life for the better or nothin'. Nah, you was always more of those people that said hi to me every day of the week, from week one. You was something that was always there. When girlfriends and jobs and messed up siblings and parents came knockin' to take away another piece of happiness, it was you, watchin' from just far enough away for me to not notice you. I remember how I felt back then: like everyone I cared about had just up and left, like there weren't nobody who cared. I didn't think anybody gave a shit, you know? But you always did. The day after I lost my job you left a hundred bucks and a whole goddamn ham on my doorstep. That's it; not a note, nothin'. Just a hundred bucks, in cash, and a giant freakin' ham. 

I feel like you was always there for me, like that. I like to think that even when I was a little snot-nosed punk back in Michigan that you was there, four houses down the street on Glendale, makin' sure that I was keepin' my nose clean. You did good. Real good. 'Cept for that one time with Johnny Baker. Boy, did I get smoked that night. Anyway, point is, you was my guardian angel. Fact is, you still are. You was the best person I ever knew, and now that youse in the ground I don't know I'll be the same anymore. Hey, listen. I know it's selfish, but I'd like to ask you one more favor. Just one. 

Stick around. 

POP SONGS 101

First things first.

You’re going to need a beat.

A phat beat.

What does phat mean?

Don’t matter.

Also, quick side note:

When writing pop music, always make poor use of grammar.

Not doesn’t matter,

Don’t matter.

Why?

Because it’s hip.

Now back to that beat. It has to be pounding.

The bass levels have to be off the charts

If you wanna be on them charts.

Naw’m saaaaaaayyiinn?

Right.

OK.
Good.

Next up is lyrics.
All you need to know about them is that they aren't that important right now.

Don’t think too much about them.

We'll get back to that after we consider

Melody!

Melodically speaking, you want something in the key of C.

Not too many chord changes,
And not too many weird chords in general.
Keep it vanilla;

You want all the kids in middle school just learning how to play the guitar

To be able to pick this up in ten minutes,

So that he can get that girl

Or vice versa.

We don’t judge.

Speaking of,

Make sure to throw in a couple references to poorly-thought-out teenage

Cries for social justice.

Oh, don't worry.

They don't have to be intelligent commentaries.

Just make sure to make fun of Bush, or Obama,

About screwing up the country
Somehow, in some way.

Or something like that. It’ll work.

And remember to stop all the music so that it’s just your voice making of

Important person X.

Alright. Now let's move onto lyrics.

They’re a huge pain.

The trick with writing popular lyrics

Is that they either have to actually be really smart,

Or have to be drowned in so much melody that nobody pays attention to them.

As you might have guessed,

The latter is much easier.

Plus it works better.

I mean,

Just think about the amount of work it takes to actually write a song

That’s melodically interesting

And lyrically meaningful. At the same time!

I know!

Ridiculous right? Just not economically efficient!

Now,

Assuming that you’re going with the second option,

You can pretty much let your freak flag fly.

Try not to be racist or homophobic though,

Those things are a big no-no right now.

But sexism is just fine.

In fact, it might just make you sound cooler!

Treat women as things to be conquered if you are a man

(If you are a woman, talk about how much in love you are

With the bad boy, people eat that up)

Promote ideas like slut-shaming and

Tell your audience that YOU

Are the one in control. YOU

Have all of the power. YOU

Are cool and smart and funny, not them.

Remember that.

Now, I’m aware that all of this sounds very difficult.

You may think to yourself:

Nobody’s going to fall for anything this stupid!

Don't worry about it.

Your audience won't even think two whits about any of it. 

They are dumber than you think.

SORRY

I was never afraid of the dark. But now I am. I hear it, screaming and writhing in the air between my ears, showing me madness and delusion. Through the infinite unknown I fumble and fall, hands and fists clasped, straining for a release that never comes. But you do. Without fail, you arrive and drive everything away. Your face is quiet with bright things in it. You do not smile, you simply are. You take my hand and lead me somewhere, and things fade into greyness. The trees, the water, the sky, all of it is a light, pastel grey. Your face is blank. And then you smile. Everything bursts into color and melodious life, and I want to live forever.

I apologize in advance for any inconvenience this may cause. 

i

I know that there's a lot to do and it seems as though I can only think at half pace today but there's so much to do and I can't keep track of it all and I need to go faster and faster and faster and faster and faster but I can only move so fast and by God I should have worked out more nothing is moving the way I want it to why is nothing moving the way I want it to oh God oh God oh god, I'm going to be late, and where's the cab...there it is no time to wait sorry old lady but I really need this cab, and here, look, I'm really busy and I'm so sorry goodbye; 23rd and Broadway please, oh what's going to happen to me Joe's going to fire me because there's nothing I've really accomplished within this past month and I need to get those papers processed and I haven't gotten there yet and why and I need to buy Sarah that calculator for school and Lisa needs new pencils, but Jesus Christ why can't she get them herself she's ten years old and it's Uncle Fabio's birthday in two weeks and he's been dropping hints that he's running out of cash again, dear God he's not subtle at all and why and why, Jesus cabbie watch where you're going you idiot, nearly getting me killed who do you think you are, I need to hold on for just another couple of weeks because then I'm going to get that paid vacation from Joe and then maybe I'll get a chance to think and I'll have some time to myself for once and I can finally sort things out and I'll be good to go, and I won't forget things so much and I'll be good to go again...for what? No, there's no use in asking questions like that I'll only get distracted, I need to work, I need to get Sarah those pens and Lisa needs that calculator and maybe after today I'll go Jim's and get a drink, just for old time's sakes, i...