I was rumored a trucker. That is my near future. The open road never shined with such promise. You can only drive through Nebraska naked, though. I will be in New York several times sooner than you think. It’s fairly obvious that won’t matter.

Why do we call things classified and then put them in the newspaper?

Some things just aren’t meant to be difficult and cryptic. My whole life is staring me in the face, and it isn’t just flashes. They are hard looks, some as disturbing as dreams. She is back from China, and if I’m lucky, no one will see me. I will slip in and out, getting a falafel wrap in the meantime. Cuties used to hand me the bags, and I’d sit on the lawn. I was their boss elsewhere, and they said flattering things and looked on with hope and respect, vacant significant others never far away. I left and they didn’t know how to find me for letters. They deserve recommendation, but I had to save myself. I never wanted the chips, but sometimes I got a good cookie. It has been forever. I don’t remember anything.

I look in the mirror a lot. Are you surprised when you do? I’ve had to talk about quitting, but there isn’t a patch for eyes.

I bought more ways to display my ideas. They were cheap, and I feel inspired. I also feel alone. The road will do that. So will everyone.

I was going to out myself as an old Russian man. You beat me to it. I made unappreciated sacrifices, and I’m trying to forget why.

Most of all, I should not have promised to work on bringing sexy back. Sexy is the least of our problems. Before we focus on the reinstatement of personal definitions of all things erotic, lovely, charming, or sane, I’d recommend considering other elements lacking. Despite my exuberant oversight, mistakes do not define my life or work. There are rainbows on rooftops worth seeing instead.

I wrote home once. I won’t anymore. I don’t wait there. I have to keep going. I am afraid of falling one direction and things that run so loudly I can hear them. It could sound one way, but I usually mean it another. I couldn’t make it up if I tried, and I couldn’t live any other way than as myself. The seven is here, and I hope we all believe in more than words as resolutions.

Really could not be more angry. It is good. Propeller. Watch out for the slow moving sea creatures though. Never did any good to hurt the kind mammals.

No dreaming anymore. Log. Don’t hurt the forest. Trees fall there, and it is not about you. You’re going to have to unbunch your panties and get over yourself, please. I’m trying to live, here.

I have letters to write. You can have one, and you cannot. How are you doing? I’m fine; thanks for asking. Oh wait.

Blah blah, then I realized we were part of an elite socially-conscious gathering, and then I went home to where I live. You didn’t carpool? At least I recycle. I don’t carry forks in suitcases, though. Everyone has standards and limits. His is currently $100 on a pre-paid Visa debit card.

These men on that card stare, sort of, at me. The middle one looks right on, while the others look at him, like a signal. They all have glasses. Someone made them. All collars. You will need that. There are also cards from her. I think she works at the New Yorker now. Should I explain all of that? She made Michael Stipe for the fridge. That cartoonist signed some stuff. Thanks for sending it along. You think about me when I don’t know it.

I always promise I’ll go see their bands, and I do not. Who am I fooling?

You skipped a day.
I skipped a week, and you just didn’t know it.
They already dropped.
I will too, soon. I shouldn’t even warn you.

They ran into each other a Tupperware party and only realized they’d been married to the same man because of their unique, shared last name.

Erin was like, “Don’t fuck with my water!”

To what or whom are the babies dedicated?
It really made me think.
Gee, that’s fucking special. Any other words of wisdom?
Well, you are just thought about and stuff.
You have such a way of expressing yourself. Congratu-fucking-lations on being alive.
No, congratulations to you. A star is born.
Right. Right.

He doesn’t mute the phone when he pees and we are on the phone because that is real.
“Like me with long hair! That’s what I want God to bring me for Christmas!”

The 80s created financial ruin. And me.
I couldn’t even make a wish, so I just blew.

I wish everything was in reverse.

My towel smells like bacon.

There is nothing like a holiday. There is nothing like you. There is nothing like every day. I miss that homely bee girl. She just wanted some rain, and her life was boring/lonely until she found those gates. I sit by windows. I still like to jump on beds. What if you saw your ex at a funeral and didn’t recognize him/her? What if you’d been married? Does that even matter? I wouldn’t sign a copy for you, even if you waited in line.

You should just try to meet a child who hasn’t been adopted by Mia Farrow.

Smoke in the chimney means a log on the fire, and a log on the fire means loves.

I hear Norwegians light candles for Christmas and if they burn out, you will have bad luck.

I also heard about malicious inflatable snowman stabbings.

The First Noel makes me think about an ancient hotel sign with a dead final consonant.

There is this huge dove earth thing. Doves mean peace.

You’ve only been up for nine hours?!
This is every day of my life.
That’s unacceptable. You’ll be up with Santa!

I am awake, and he did not arrive.

Lemme know if you need a walking stick.

You are sick because you suck at caring.

And we can walk in the night and not be afraid. I paced the driveway barefoot and spoke in hushed harashness. I didn’t see any bugs and a few stars.

Here it comes.

Do you think everyone brings something back from the fence? {origin}
No, some people would just sit on the fence and not think about anything. That’s their purpose for sitting there.

Do they have the same name?
Almost. (They are from different countries.)

How do you feel when you see the men with slicked, spiky hair and gold chains?
I wonder why he needed to readjust himself by the baked goods in Wal-Mart. I felt like I was going to vomit. I looked at the pears to escape.

What are your artistic interests?
Today? These:
Art as space.
Hoaxavism – performing truth through hoax.
Anti-advertising and billboard liberation.
Replanting stolen trees, especially pines, especially those uprooted for holiday decor.
Screaming back at children in public. Making film about it using only surveillance footage from department store(s).
Jamming radio signal(s).
Culture as unidirectional stream.
Bogus instant messaging. (Not “hey”, “hi”, which is your Basic Instant Messaging Session.)
Art as public service.
Gillian Anderson screensavers.
Plop art.
Collecting rare media, pamphlets.
Anonymity to speak back to institutions.

Can you tell us a little more about why you are here?
I don’t know where else to go. Can you tell me why you do anything?

Want some rum cake?
Naw, I’m fine. One time I went miniature golfing up on the side of a cliff and you had to take a tram. When there is lightning, they close it and you have to quit your game and get below immediately.

I wonder when I will run out of stories and memories and reality.

Thank your beliefs for the ones who write past midnight, “screw them, I love you”. I love you too. Thank you for knowing. I thought I’d had my game face wrapped around the north end of town. But overcompensating elsewhere must give me away. You are the best for knowing, and I hope you’ll be there when it is anything, ever. I am here forever.

Doesn’t she look like Kate Moss? If I only paid closer attention to such things. When was the last time the mobster got a hug next to the garbage from a moving woman? Two days, she will be in New York suburbs. We miss that she fell in love with his teeth the first time she saw him, and I can’t believe he has a wife and a baby named Beatrix. He knows he’s attractive. How did so many people do this in one week? The irony of lost cellulars isn’t – yes – lost, but at least it was under the trash.

My heart expands and collapses, and I can live this way. I will not drive anyone to the dump. We used to go and salvage bricks, throw them into the truck bed, and then you died youngish and no one suspected. As usual, I knew and nothing surprises me. I broke the robin’s egg and petted the baby opossum, and its mother never showed up to attack me. They may have lived in the back shed, which was really a large building full of possibly discarded furniture and tools. It was not the red place with couches, where you said, “THIS IS GREAT!”, arms in the air in celebration of refrigerator thrift. I was five and never so perplexed. I sucked on dandelions for the myth of milk, and you took the workers milkshakes because you try to love and give, even when you don’t know how to call and be. Medical bills or birthday gifts. Thank you for the increasing lack of choices, and I sure was glad we had that ladder. Until I learned that I was their people, I was so afraid and I would climb so high. Now I regret that they were lonely and just needed me before they were gone. There are always more, but they are never the same. But I was four and sleeping alone wasn’t even fun then. We all just learn to accept it, though. Eating a banana from your dad won’t help when you say you’re starving any more than I can write your exam about constitution. He will keep digging, and we will too. But he has a shovel. I have old joy.