by J. Jerome Cruz
This morning is so fucktabulous it’s almost like dancing in the nude with your favorite vacuum while the shows you love Technicolor up the screen. & yet here I am tweeting clips of Russian car crashes to friends who say I always look sad. Once upon a time my memoirs began: In all of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I was the jabroni who circumcised trees. How did I end up sneaking stones into pinball machines? After a week of workshopping, though, I cleaned it up & now it reads: Every morning the elephant next door steals leaves off my poinsettia trees. This is why I don’t have a life anymore. Don’t those lines just make your core feel va va voom? Just yesterday two people asked for the title, & I told them it’s way too early to decide. That’s a lie. The title I want is When You’re a Yellow Fellow in America Everyone Forgets that You Exist Until It’s No Longer a Matter of Convenience. The title I’ll write down before I send it out is Event Horizons.