Some people are just M&M’s

 

Some people are just M&M’s

sugar and chocolate

exoskeleton that snaps between your teeth

yellow like a taxi

blue like a Gatorade

leave them in the sun and they melt like lovers

they come neatly wrapped in paper packaging

that you’re meant to open

perforated to perfection

tempting your redemption

it wasn’t happenstance

you were set up

A Saturday in LA


I’m a fan of routines. In New York I would get up every Saturday morning and get coffee. Then, I would drink my coffee in the fountain in Washington Square Park. Sometimes, I would draw and other times I would just people watch. Then, I would go to the library and finish some work. By noon, I would have the entire rest of the day to go on an adventure or run errands. However, I’ve never had a “normal” LA Saturday.

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Uninspired


There’s a difference between writer’s block and feeling uninspired. The other day I was listening to the radio and that Rhianna song came on and the chorus says, “bi*** better have my money,” and I started to think about the wide dissemination of her songs versus the lack of meaning being imparted onto the listeners. Suddenly, I felt uninspired.

 

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Saturday Poem: Blood and Compliments

there was a moment when you thought that you could see your blood

while it was still blue and pulsing

when you thought that you knew absolute truths

about helicopters and stars in the heavens

you definitely believed you necklace

when the clasp trailed to your collar bone

and it whispered in your ear that someone was thinking of you

and how they’d like to touch your skin

when you distrusted that the cracks in the pavement

were breaking your mother’s spine

was about the same time that you decided

you were probably wrong about everything you knew for a fact

so, now when he pays you a compliment it’s only true

for the next sixty seconds

even though when you say the same thing you’ll mean it

forever is a circle

the kind you can’t swallow

Transcendentalism


Did you read a lot about¬†transcendentalism in high school? I did. Thoreau, Emerson, Krakauer’s Chris McCandless story, but why? Was it a warning about living a life of “quiet desperation,” or were all of these trascendentalists, in fact, also men leading lives of quiet desperation, even in their silent reverie?

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