On the Road Again

. . .and on the way to one of the


most fabulous places in the world: Albuquerque, New Mexico. We’re going by car, but I don’t mind the two-and-a-half days of travel. It makes for interesting experiences across 5 states, and this year I’m going to make it a blogging adventure. I’ll be posting from my phone whenever the occasion arises, which should lead to a fun collection of pictures and stories.

Bon Voyage,



Spam: A Poem

Author’s Note: 100% of the following was copied and pasted directly from spam comments on this blog. The only thing I changed was the line spacing, since, clearly, they weren’t already in poem form. Also, some of the spam had to be shortened for the sake of not being boring. Without further ado, here goes nothing.


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I crack the egg

on the side of the ribbed glass

bowl and watch it swim, then

I send another down

and another, and they

all flirt and play around. Slowly,

they dance around in their

own syrup, the only care

they have in the whole world

being to swirl

and to glisten.


A yolk splits and spills,

bleeding incessantly.

I feel guilty. I have killed

it. The bowl is flooding

with yellow ooze.

Slowly but surely, it is

spreading, covering the

surface of the pool, blocking the

sun, like clouds.

There are unmutilated eggs that

are soft to the touch, and

spring, impermeable, from




They are vibrant little stars

that I can hold, whose

powers are above me, and

will neither harm me nor

help me.

They seem content that I

cannot harm them, but

that’s not my intent

anyway. All I want to do is dip in

with them, swim and

feel lively and bright,

be the color of the sun,

be young and

careless. The only thing

that I look for is

comfort, peace of mind, like

the lazy happiness in

the ribbed glass bowl.


Stop thinking. Stop

thinking. Add

milk. Whisk.


They squiggle upward on a spiral staircase

to heaven, and when they

arrive they explode with joy and

shudder a booming heartbeat

that ricochets off the trees and the

buildings and takes a nose-dive

into a chest, where

it replaces a heart’s own pulse for

half a second; they

light up the whole sky, from edge to edge,

filling it with long, spindly

fingers and a delicate plume of

purple feathers, in the shape of a

mushroom cap, and these dissipate

into golden diamond shimmers that

flutter and dance and split off

in triads, and glitter like the sparkles

on a dress of a fabulous lady in an old movie; they

diffuse their glow onto the entire

audience, diffuse the attention

from the circular lights of children’s necklaces, put

everyone in the spotlight but make themselves the stars;they

leave behind a chorus of “oo” and “ah

and breathless “wow” and drunken “holy––

as if to glorify themselves through the same vessels that

they present themselves to; they give their presence to

lesser beings who are far from

worthy; and, for their time on stage, they

are deities, idols, wide-open doors

to the majestic, creatures of the night too

complex for us to understand; they

paint the pictures of perfection; they

leave a web of awe until the cycle starts


So This is It

Jack Stewart

4503 Carson Avenue

Mason, Missouri, 63000


Dear Jack,

Do you

remember all the time

we sat around being stupid

for no reason and we would

laugh at ourselves and at

everything else,

not caring about or even thinking about the

things we were supposed to

be doing,

we were so busy

enjoying each other’s


I’m not sure when

you changed or even why,

what shifted in your head,

or your chemistry,

or whatever,

that made you change. It’s like

one day I had you and the next

I had your shell,

your memories, the bits and pieces

that were you once

but all of a

sudden were more like

corpses in my hands. I

promise I

cried when it all went down

the drain, when you

stopped answering my

calls and responding to

my letters, when

you left me, gave me the cold shoulder, like we

never had anything.


You had really been leaving

me for a long time,

you turned into a ghost before my very eyes and

I didn’t even notice. I

didn’t notice when you grew

white like a sheet and

started fading into the air,

but now, you’re

full-on invisibility cloak and

it’s too late for me to

stop the process, to

pick up the broken pieces and

glue them back together,

because I made a mistake

by loosening my grip when

you started to slink away.


I always wonder

if I could have

fixed things by

holding tighter and

refusing to drop the amazing, fragile thing

we had.

If I had only realized that

you were wriggling towards

the light, and that

in your eyes, I

was the dark, then maybe

the wounds could have

healed before they were sunk all the way,

before the bleeding

became fatal and

before the glass piercing the skin

was too deep to come out.


Do you remember the

promises you made

me? I know that

you have a strong recollection

of the ones I made to

you, the ones I didn’t just break, the ones

I shattered, the ones

you brought up time

and time again. But

you never acknowledged or even

apologized for

the promises you made

that were empty when

you made them, that

you tossed on the ground

and ripped apart with

your bare hands,

like what you did to me

when you left,

like what you did when you discarded

me at the side of the

road like a cigarette butt or

a straw from McDonald’s,

like that was

all that I was worth,

like that’s all the humanity you saw in me.


I suppose this is a letter, Jack,

to say I’m sorry,

and say that I hope

you’re sorry, too.

Because every day

I wither a little more,

because there is a gaping hole

where there should be you.

I look the same,

but on the inside I

have nothing, like

a Barbie doll, I am hollow,

made of 100% outside.

The outside was all you ever

seemed to care

about, though, and once

you were through with that part of me

you pushed it away

like the rest didn’t

matter at all.


So, this is it, Jack.

This is the last

bundle of words

that you will get

from me,

this is the last time I’m going to try to explain how hurt I am,

how dejected, and this is the last time

I will ever think that

there’s a way to

talk sense into you, and I can

assure you of that much,

because I know you’ll just recycle this letter and

get back to whatever you were doing,

like chopping carrots, or watching

reruns of Friends like we

used to on Fridays, or maybe

making out with your

shiny new girlfriend who

isn’t looking for commitment yet.

This is the end, el fin,

no more once upon a time

or fairy tales or happily ever after,

no more movie nights or

little play fights about who will buy the popcorn or

holding hands and swinging them,

no more us,

no more Jack.

It hurts to say goodbye like this, not

seeing your eyes when I say it or

getting a goodbye kiss, but it

had to be

done like

this because

you’ve changed your number

and you’ve moved very, very

far away. Just

know that every day I

wake up and I’m

less alive, that

it will be a long time until I’m

whole again, that

even after I think I’ve

moved on, there will

still be a little part of me that

remembers you and

blocks out everyone else,

that someday I will

move on for real, and with someone

great, and then I’ll

be happy, that I hate

needing someone,that

I hate myself, that

I hate being told I’m loved when I’m not.


This is it, Jack.

Have a nice life.


Yours truly,