Issue 7 | Summer 2010

If my co-worker asked I’d answer

No, I haven’t read the newspaper today,

like most other days,

I avoid licking the tips

of my fingers to flip the print

because who needs ink smudges on thumbs


Reading the news almost guarantees

performing the Rorschach inkblot test

on myself.

So I don’t.

Because being your own doctor is hard:

What do you see in this word on your thumb?

                        A man riding a unicorn.

What do you see in this one?

A man riding a unicorn and getting shot in the face.

It’s safer to be ten years old and play Barbie

than have what’s black and white and red all over

ruin your face

should you rest your head on the paper.

I want to daydream back to ten years old,

but getting stuck in “hey kid” isn’t easy.

The images are blurry.

The feelings aren’t the same.

Being jealous is boring.

I didn’t believe the same things I do now—

how I don’t believe in the news

the way some people don’t believe in God.

And the computer chair in this office isn’t made for reading:

the leather is too slick,

falling off your seat is not professional—

answering the phone from the floor isn’t yoga,

Yes, I try to practice yoga properly,


Filed under: Poetry