The first sentence is drinking on a cat-sick sofa in a fourth floor apartment—the sky’s retired, Niko’s at The Lovecraft—mother’s been called & father called back. To the right is Calaroga—that’s life. I remember how I felt after & look up a piece of grammar. Broadway isn’t as narrow as Halsey. I believe in no one that doesn’t believe we’re all somebody else.
This is the last time I care if you’re serious—we can’t even via text. The second sentence is quitting elevators, dreams dressed as sing-alongs, memories so perfect they predicted global warming from a pyramid—I will die as myself. Life is an opportunity up until then.
The motherfucker makes an elephant with his breath on a chosen window. The motherfucker unzips his thoughts. The motherfucker pours locked doors. The motherfucker’s mother is a locked door. The motherfucker’s father is a recliner. The motherfucker continues pouring doors & locks. The motherfucker thinks about his hair. The motherfucker can’t define any word completely. The motherfucker can’t define himself. The motherfucker almost never wants to sweat anymore. The motherfucker is drinking a beer in the dark that’s sweating. The motherfucker believes in god if god is a nooner.
Parker Tettleton is a Leo, a vegan, a resident of Portland, Oregon. He is also the author of the collections GREENS (Thunderclap Press 2012) & NEXT ADDRESS (Housefire Books, forthcoming 2015). More or less is here.