A Shout Out For My Unpublished Novel


 My book a purebred Tibetan Mastiff cowering under a tireless car fur matted, smelly breath, infected eye.

My book, a rusty nail you step on in your flip flops, summer of ’76, that abandoned house up on the hill, swallowed by forest, empty beer bottles, dirty, filleted mattress a shade of canvas brown and corner-torn square wrappers emblazoned with TROJAN that you don’t know about yet but oh…you know.

My book, a brightness that hurts like noon sun out the back exit of a movie theater but you sneeze and popcorn bits shotgun into your cupped palms and there’s a bit of snot and you wipe it all on your pants.




My book, a prima ballerina thirty-three years from now telling her grandkids how she traded the beauty of ballet for normal feet, an untended body.

 My book, not wiping all the way perfectly.

My book, a pile of garage sale remnants left curbside with a hand-drawn FREE sign, still there in the morning, wet, letters running.

My book, my love, pockmarked and wrenched from my arms still baby-cute and appealing, taken away, held high in front of a crowd for others to laugh at.

My book, a “GODDAMMITTURNITDOWN! ITOLDYOUKIDS!” from a second-shift mother just trying to get some goddam sleep on a Sunday but you fucking kids gotta play your cartoons at 33 decibels and then fight with your brother about who gets the prize at the bottom of the Sugar Snacks box BUT IT’S A TANK AND YOU’RE A GIRL! He says but I don’t care because I hate my brothers and I opened the box first and that’s law.

My book, like cilantro, like hot weather, like dildos, not for everyone but still just as great, still something viable, still a thing that invokes strong feelings one way or the other.  

My book, something the world should have a chance to love.





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