I’ll Always Hear From Me
On the blue line today I was trying to feel every one of the fifty-nine degrees—I took turns looking at the stop-start freeway, at a billboard covered in graffiti that read “fuck cancer,” & at my feet—the latter of which I’m still thinking about. I want them to know they’re good to me, that they’ve carried me & they’ve never said a word. I want to be like that—kind & carrying & selfless. I’m far away from you & I take a breath every time I remember. I’m alone somewhere with myself & I’m quiet but my quiet has a sound & it doesn’t sound like a quiet.
Where Do You Get Your Amino Acids?
The first sentence hits pause twice, checks the internet connection—the blinks are the indecisions, the incisions, the conversions, the conversations, the hands holding a body: some format of devotion. I believe in the prayer of silence, of not asking would I exist at any other time. My feet are crossed, my clothes are clean, my submissions notebook has my full name & phone number on the inside of the cover, inscribed by my first girlfriend, who shared the losing of our virginity. It’s Wednesday, I’ve cried twice, & I’m so very, very—.
I happen to happen where I do, & when, sometimes, I want this sentence to end it does. Conversely, it lives & fucks up & sucks up & tremors & blinks & I am the only one who cares—who, what, where, how, when is a lie? The second sentence waits for a text message, sidewalks a conclusion to thoughts leading themselves on emotional cruises. I talk to myself & myself says the sea is the water your thoughts & feelings have shit to do with. You message me that you’re hopeful. I mean I am too.
The first sentence is the average MCAT score. I have six pockets on & my blood is swimming in November. Trees outside the window look enough like the ones I grew up near that I barely remember—there’s just more here, I think, piled the fuck up. This blood is so wasteful. This blood is so sidewalk. This blood is the blood of the MCAT taken with six pockets on in November with trees, most of them outside—because I pile, because I can’t remember, because I’m wasteful, because I’ve never been swimming.
Parker Tettleton is a Leo, a vegan, & a resident of Portland, Oregon. He has work featured in or forthcoming from DUM DUM, Diagram, Gargoyle, & E‑ratio, among others. He is also the author of the collection GREENS (Thunderclap Press 2012) as well as the chapbooks SAME OPPOSITE (Thunderclap Press 2010) & OURS MINE YOURS (Pity Milk Press 2014). More information can be found here.