The tax collector arrived, a stormy look on his face. He came too close to me.

“How many tickets did you sell?” Brett asked. I may as well have been sitting in a dank fluorescent room with folding chairs and a two-way mirror. Tickets sold: one.

“What the Hell, man? We were each supposed to sell ten. That’s what we promised,” he started to get angry. ***** looked at me, embarrassed because I was too uncharismatic to sell a ticket to anyone but them. Brett had spent all of his ticket money, leaving us broke. We owed the Pike Room…

The slap of concrete, a heel turn.

Ours is a mean garbage scream,

An attack sent inward,

A mess to be cleaned up later,

Left on our dashboards.

An ancestral moan,

Ragged breath and moan again.

We are a footstep,

The slap of concrete,

A heel turn.

We are dead

On apathetic arrival,

Until we live

In those nice apartments

Until we live,

Declared sick

Until we live.

We are living

On each other’s couches

We don’t get off the couch

Until the mailman shakes his head.

Baby, we’re a trash pile

Burning like lungs

& the hallucinations,

Burning until

We remember that it’s

Too hard to live for free

& we aren’t hard.

Baby, we are melting.

We are nothing.

We are garbage.

Cover of The Pervert, by Remy Boydell, directed by Michelle Perez.

Michelle Perez wrote the single best comic about growing up trans in the midwest. Remy Boydell, who has worked with the band Car Seat Headrest and recently wrote/drew a solo comic, illustrated the book.

Michelle and I talked about passing at work, making a living as an artist, and Jeff Bezos’ habit of consuming iguanas. The Pervert is a refreshing read that you should check out this Pride Month. You could go to the Bank of America/Dollar General sponsored parade, for sure. …

Grim Tombstone entered and exited my life. I wonder where he is. We’re both heret1cs.
Grim Tombstone entered and exited my life. I wonder where he is. We’re both heret1cs.

Grim Tombstone told absurd lies.

Last I talked to him, he was getting a new car and a job by next Saturday.

Brandon kicked him out of our house with a strongly worded post-it note on the coffee table one morning. Waking up on our comfyass couch to an eviction notice, sun streaming in through the windows, I can’t imagine. Besides a momentary sighting one day, him on the sidewalk, me in my car, on Kalamazoo St., I haven’t seen him, or talked to him, since he left. I drove on past him, but I swear to God, my toes…

Tyler Burba talked to Why I Cried a little bit ago about his band, Visit. With the urging of a Pynchon scholar friend, Burba and his band recorded an album of songs written by the reclusive author. Pynchon’s wiley lyrics are scattered across the chapters of his dense, ridiculous and awe-inspiring novels. No one has ever brought these songs to life quite like Burba.

Because of Burba’s efforts, Pynchon obsessives can hear approximations of the songs they’ve been vaguely humming for years.

After engaging in some obligatory small talk, Burba and I got down to business.


Okay, let’s talk…

Adam was on acid, so we left him searching for meaning in my bedroom.

my speeding car, a fire ant full of sting and apathy and greasy hair.

just me and Jack, him rewinding cassette tapes in my stereo,

all four ears straining to find something in the static.

we drove to a farm one town over.

this tornado off in the warm distance looked like God’s esophagus, sucking up everyone but the sinners, not minding the taste. we were safe.

we kicked rocks at other rocks and talked about death. …

Why I Cried

didn’t your mama ever teach you how to cry, boy?

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