$200

I wanted a workshop called
“Serious Fiction” to love and
obey me. I was bad, sick, uh
mean, a sack of muesli on a
mountain somewhere. I
was a serious single man
in want of a good fortune.
I possessed and annihilated — 
dun-dun, these are my stories.
If we reify the subject of satire
through satirization I want to
be right. I wanted a workshop
called “Serious Fiction” to love
and forgive me. I cried over a
reading that made me blue
and green and closed, like a
flower I fucking forgot the
name of I guess; I called my
mother, who told me to get
my shit together.

I don’t want my cry to tell
you anything! I want to send you
1289 inconsequential, lanced
diatribes about raspberries
I can’t afford, the staining of
my mouth haha allusive

(I sing), about excess. But the
very real — I want an alien to plunge right in.