Aphorisms for the Ugly White Page For two and a half hours I stared at you, you sexy white thing. you endless white thing, you blank, ugly fucking whore of a blank, white, single screen. I wonder what you were thinking while I was tripping over a closet of memories like a black out at a party while everyone rummages to smoke outside in someone else’s shoes. Like people about to go down in a ship. My step father rolling his oversized cotton sleeves in messy pastry mixing up with the coffee stained back office of his garage and the coffee in white Styrofoam, creating a place where none existed before, but where nothing but smell and longing are able to say enough in their statement. There was good in here but it was only ever enough to keep warm, singly by. Even the character feels weak and goes headfirst into a plate of glass in some bad homage to something. Not even the reference seems worth it. But we do it anyway don’t way? It’s the only dedicated relationship I have, so it has to be like this sometimes. Even when there is nothing to say we have to life like this. I know you don’t like me when I write to Miles Davis but I do it anyway. You know I veer toward a schedule only for you to smash it into new mosaic. But we work together somehow. We block out the blindness, bad line after cliché after shaky reservation. We work in record stores and on busses and other random, eccentric momentary states. Got married back in high school. Have nothing but boxes of us now. Boxes and ticket stub match pack haikus.