Last Ten




Setting: Huts weaved from branch. Ancient protection, caves. This idea of shelter. More from god than the elements. A private encounter. Red bloom.

Stage directions: Contract your neck. Bleed. Sigh. Pant. Wet.


The first man says:
        “If I fell down I wouldn’t know what to say. All I can remember is how fantastic your body feels. I lack an understanding of how glass works. You can see right through me. This isn’t sentiment. We can sit in a circle & talk. Let me tell you about my dream: the bus I’m in sloshes around in mud, children laugh as they fly out of windows, it’s fun for them. My lips tingle in pain. Snakes & lizards crawl under the mud. The bus almost slides off the edge of a cliff. As passengers we all seem non-plussed. We are all ok. Outside it never stops raining. It’s not too cold. The lizards & snakes attempt to strike fear, they insist they’re taking over but I’m not worried. I taught myself to walk on water.”

The next man says:
        “To hover an inch above the ground at all times feels even better than continual linked orgasm. A new understanding of freedom. In my dream I’m being lead down a dirt path in a forest. My grandmother never allowed me in this far in. I’m not sure who is leading me, but I am sure of my excitement. Objects in the trees blur & begin to glow gold & blue. It’s either movement or a tactic of disorientation. In nature all movement is strategy. Snails sliding over flowers: certain realms can never exist because they are too perfect. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. The colors are so important. It’s more than you realize. There is no point in pretending like you know what the answer to this question is.”

The first man says:
        “But the question is only of silence. And this is not an explanation, only a new encounter. Now let me tell you what happened outside of the dream:
        “The scene describes a cave on the coast where a man tortures boys in their late adolescence. It describes the items he uses, the wooden structures he attaches bodies to. The temperature of the air. The smells. He had tears in his eyes when he told me. Sometimes people just want to hear that they’re not horrible.”

The next man says:
        “IN THIS ECSTASY there can be no reply. Now I’m going to teach you how to spin in a circle until you’re rotating so fast you die. An airy death, like drowning but the opposite.”


Sharon keeps her office locked. She keeps her laptop locked in her office’s roll top desk. I know about the keys, the password; I’ve paid close attention to her hands. Her sleep is deepest at a specific time. I don’t need to know what I know to find out what she is hiding.

Sharon has noticed certain credit card charges and said nothing. She has been alone in a room with my cell phone and Rolodex. We share a bed and watch each other. If what we watch for were to transpire, we would throw something in each other’s faces. I have plans and my wife has plans. Everything depends on reaching an information threshold.

At a dinner party Sharon watches me while pretending to talk to Wayne Whitman. I pretend to talk to Sally Nussbaum-Whitman while I watch Sharon. In addition to Sally Nussbaum-Whitman there is a woman across the room my wife doesn’t know about. There is a man across the room that I don’t know about. If I leave the room with or closely preceded by or closely followed by Sally Nussbaum-Whitman, Sharon will leave with the man I don’t know about. If Sharon leaves the room and Wayne Whitman leaves the room at the same time or soon before or soon thereafter, I will leave with the woman Sharon doesn’t know about.

I look at the upper left quadrant of the board while thinking about the lower right quadrant. My wife looks at (from her perspective) the lower right quadrant while thinking about the upper left quadrant. She says she searched the Internet for information on female chess players but found mostly photo collections with titles like “Top Ten Hottest Grandmistresses” or “Chess Diva Beauty Contest.” Sharon watches the lower right quadrant. I think she sees (or that she thinks she sees) a way to prevent mate in four moves by forcing a draw. I watch the upper left quadrant.

If You Wish to Pierce the Veil

Place the Veil on your face.
What do you see?
Do you see swans?

Neither do I. Do you see
the cicatrix? Neither do I.
What happens next?

Build a cabin in the Veil?
Start a family in the Veil?
Small glowing stones

leading into the dark.
Years later when you are old
and tired of your life,

take the Veil off your face.
What do you see?
Do you see swans?

had a nightmare where i went to a mansion party & the host hired her friends to throw crystal meth in every room of the mansion at the same time, while her other friends went around the mansion locking all the guests inside

the host was a prominent internet fashion and writing icon that was real, but i had never met

i was standing in a hallway and two girls ran then slid on their stomachs letting go of meth rocks at the same time. when the meth hit the ground it started smoking instantly. i ran out a door that hadn’t been locked yet but the host found me & dragged me back into the crystal meth party

at this point in the dream i woke up. i thought “oh shit, this is real, i read an article about it,” then fell back asleep.

i had my shirt over my mouth & nose but still started feeling the crystal meth. i coped with being high by dancing & yelling at the host that she made me relapse. she did not give a fuck, she was excited about her article.

in the women’s bathroom the stalls had circular holes in the doors so you could watch the women pee. all the stalls had front loading washers next to the toilets.

i watched a girl i went to high school with pee while shaking & crying. she told me we were going to be stuck in the meth party for 3 days, that an article was going to be written about it.

i made it my mission in the dream to help this girl have fun on crystal meth. i faintly remember trying to get her to dance, while i was dancing with some type of desperation, like if i stopped moving my heart would explode. i was dancing and telling myself “this is fun you are having fun dancing on crystal meth, if you worry you will die, your heart is already trying really hard.”

i started to picture this party as one where people would be killed, where when it was over no one would have any clothes and everyone would look like they got run over by a train. where people would die in the hallways and where the guests that survived would stop being high after two days, so the last day would be like staying in some horrible type of museum.

i woke up with my arms above my head & a numb face

There is an unknocked dropping unlasting acid angling a swaying agent. There is no lack of medium in this beaming brine, no glitter frequency, no plasma solidity, yet the ria’s rhythm-gripping remains unremained. There is now a bedlam of mitosis locked in a pillow of motility, vescicling, landscape-seeping toward a particular protein punching chassis. There are mitochondria equipped to clutch, rigged to emit, packed with potentiality. There are hints, tinges, molecules of a viral item. There is a brash rag of rage ablaze. There is a requisite term bursting, splashing, bruising, fucking, cutting, panging banging gashingswellingsing. There is a blooming chromo erupting onto the suffused web of this amoebic production. There is so much momentum zeroing in on an egg, a tender modern egg. There is an essential casing draining chain reacting plasma scramble. There is a shimmering pod bulleting silt to sustain intra-organelle distribution; subsist-tunneling, flourish-maturing, swell-thriving, bloom-advancing. There is an uncyclical vesicle synthing a surrogate soaking in a familiar reticulumism. There is a capsule of acid ripple. There are clusters of sponge, webs of grit, throngs of tribes composed of meat provoking a critical slaughter. There are, in this opacity, achieved swirls of heat, of bodysteam, rising to the out-there, to the above-sod. There is an infective condition to nurture, an opaque impurity to cure. There is a creaturely complexion advancing. There is an array of ancestry, pods with pulpy hooks, skin intent on lynching, pouring into the filth. There are forms, phenomena, whits, licked entities, amber rhythms, all bored from the dash from the drop of the pang. There are specks in circumference squeezing into their lanky lesions, their own absorbable atoms. There is a gore of bacteria fetching into the loop of this dash. There is a bustling membrane marred with ebbing juice-blot. There is an activated phenomenon flushing through a sprig’s yielding activity amidst genes of circumstance. There are orbits misting from the vivid spirit of sliver symmetry. There is a dot of darkness bashing into the head of a pinpoint. There is life mustering DNA in the pulsing sphere of an ovum. There is a sort of vivid terrain, channeled by discharges, with no circumference for the halo. There is a bubble of vapor drowning in the burden of this glop. There are throngs of spheres in animated hustle amidst a tittle of rhythm. There is a vital inception of whiff in the ooze of orbit broth. There are excited iotas quantifying an entity. There is a gash, or another wit-lick from the codon. There is a sort of tired microdot, hauled by spirit, projected by scheme, swallowed by matter, moistened by pattern. There are germs growing, overcoming, shock-leaking, swab-erupting, burden-bashing, whiff-clobbering, murk-brimming. There is a fuzzy certainty of rhythm in the loop of an atom. There is a tic of existence in the gash of a flesh. There is a darkness misted with zest, ripe to infect, dampening matter. There is an aphotic wee haven of peat nestled in a forever-sphere of ground and gravity. There are excited spheres of certainty in the flushing loop. There is a spirit fetched with entity, fizzy, ready to pulse. There is a terrain emitting mist, projecting entities of specks. There is a nanodot or another ooze glop-yield from the loop. There are dots nestling the moistened gore of throng mist. There is a fuzzy gene, ripe and vital. There is a sphere of gore in the membrane of a membrane. There is another glop blot-brim from the head. There is a new activity, an old terrain, an absorbable speck. There are glops dampening the symmetry of a halo. There is a wee scheme of matter in the sliver of a membrane. There is another vital circumstance. There are absorbable spirits hauling throngs of matter, clobbering matter, swallowing, swelling. There is a grown entity pulsing in broth. There is another animated atom. There is a gravity bashed with broth, marred with marginally moistening mist-dampen. There are blots hauling clobbered peat. There is a dot with no rhythm for the absorbable whiff. There is a gene in the blot of a sphere. There are fetching terrains drowning, sliver-growing, swell-swallowing, ovum-leaking, head-dampening, broth-infecting. There is a loop of terrain in the throng of a membrane. There is mist brimming the throng of a flesh. There is an ooze nestling into a sliver. There is a terrain molested with mist. There is an excited whiff of a head in a blot. There is the matter of another dot sliver-growing from the gore. There is a broth to drown in. There is a throng of whiff in the wit of a mist. There is a germ to swell. There is a pattern to flush. There is another excited glop. There is a mist of a sphere in a gene. There is an ovum to grow. There are spheres infecting glops moistening genes. There are excited loops looping a throng. There is another dampened dot. There is an absorbable speck of peat in the dash of a glop. There is a dot of gore, a glop. There is a loop of ooze in peat. There is a vital dot in a gene. There is a speck of flesh in a wit. There is a dot of a glop in a gene. There are germs growing wits. There are blots bashing ooze-flushing broth. There is a vital speck of ooze in a glop. There is a dot of a flesh in a blot. There is a blot of a dot in a speck. There is an ooze in the broth of an ooze. There is a broth in a glop in a loop. There is a blot of a loop in a broth. There is a dot of a broth in a blot. There is a glop of a broth in a loop. There is a blot of a dot in a glop. There is a blot of a glop in a broth. There is a broth of a dot in a broth. There is a broth of a blot in a dot. There is a dot of a glop in a broth. There is a glop of a blot in a glop. There is a glop of a broth in a blot. There is a blot of a dot in a broth. There is a glop of a dot in a broth. There is a blot of a broth in a glop. There is a dot of a broth in a dot.


Dottie is a 65-year-old woman from Columbus, OH who loves reading, her husband Roger, and above all else the Ohio State Buckeyes. Feelings toward her from other Goodreads users are mixed, although I would argue this is because not everyone is capable of recognizing the complexity of her critiques. Below is a sampling of her finest Goodreads reviews.

Paula Deen: It Ain’t All About the Cookin’ by Paula Deen

I LOVE THIS BOOK!!!!!! Let me repeat: I. LOVE. THIS. BOOK.

If you like books that have first name, Paula, Last name Deen, and the words It. Ain’t. All. About. The. Cooking. THEN…. drumroll please. THIS IS THE PERFECT BOOK FOR YOU.

Sometimes I get jealous when I watch Paula’s show because I am afraid that I won’t live up to the high standards that she makes but at least this book can give me the hope to try. I wish I could take the pain from her and borrow her diabetes — be the change you want to see in the world — so she could write another book just as good as this one. Boy oh boy, I hope she doesn’t lose her foot. But if she does, I hope it’s made of butter so she can keep feeding her family the delicious meals she’s known for THE WORLD OVER! God Bless Paula. And God Bless the Ohio State University Buckeyes.


You Can Make Anything Sad by Spencer Madsen

I would give this book two stars if there were more words on it. I think the price is a bit steep for what it is. You CAN make anything sad, young man, if you just try a little harder! Think of all the kitties in the shelters who are missing good homes. Sad! And here you go on talking about… Not Much! The cover looks like something disrespectful like street grafitti and Pepto Bismo. One time someone spray painted “gang tags” on the side of my grandkid’s school and it was a real shame. Government dollars in use to get it off when it could be going to police stations and soup kitchens. I like the police. Okay well I’m signing off now. Go Buckeyes! 😃

Witch Piss by Sam Pink

I thought this book was a heartwarming romp through the rough streets of Chicago. My father lived there after he abandoned us and that city gets MY-T COLD some winters. Brrrrr! And the Black slang is so realistic. I like that it gives a real representation to underclassed minorities. True Love Knows No Bounds. Homeless people are people too. Like anyone, I forget that sometimes. They just don’t have homes is all. Anyway, I was all ready to recommend this to my friend but then I logged on here and saw the author photo! What type of hairstyle is that? I would call it “Dirty” LOL. Also I am extremely concerned now that I see his other book titles. I have half a mind to go through the chicago phone book and give a little ringading to any ladies named Pink! If that was my son—- shooooowee. Poor boy. I have a lot of Jewish friends and the Halocaust is nothing to joke about. Okay, can’t wait to hear what you all have to say about that! I know I hit a lot of hot issues. But that’s what America’s about. Go Buckeyes! And Go America!


Nobody is Ever Missing by Catherine Lacey

I did not like this book because the main character does not value her husband. I love my Roger. He is very messy sometimes and he and his friends can be rowdy when they are all together. This really gets on my nerves! Sometimes I can lose my temper with him, but when it comes down to it I know that I am Blessed to have him as my Husband and Life Partner. He will be with me, come hell or high water! Catherine needs to learn this. Treat your Man right, Catherine. Maybe you should try this out, sweetie? Or try and learn to cook. You know what they say. Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed. Lol! I’m funny. Anyway, sometimes people are missing and I think this title is awfully misleading. There’s a great show on Investigation Discovery that’s all about that! Well, thanks for hearing my thoughts! Go Buckeyes!

Made to Break by D. Foy

This book is a real shame. A shame! What kind of mother names her child a letter? Not a good one! D? My friend’s daughter is lazy as heck (she works at the subway) and she at least named her son Tom. Not Thomas. Tom. That’s only two more letters but at least it’s a NAME. Ok, well I’m off to bed, interested in what you all think though! Go buckeyes!


The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

This book is too long


I Am Ready To Die A Violent Death by Heiko Julien

Man my nephew sure has been recommending some books. And typically I don’t listen to him because he’s a little bit retarded. Oh wait, you’re not supposed to say that these days. Everyone’s a critic. Anyway, he’s… well you know. However, a few weeks ago I broke my coccyx. For those of you who don’t know, this is the most important bone in your body (next to the heart bone). I know that when Aunt Maria got kicked off her horse and broke her coccyx, she had one of those balloon pillows. To sit on. I wish I had one of those right now. Like my broken coccyx, this book is a real pain in my… rhymes with mutt. I hope Roger is reading this because I could really use this because CHRISTMAS IS COMING ROGER. I Would like this, Please, Honey.

I would ask for this also except that Mister Julien has RUINT this look for me FOREVER.

My nephew (the gay one) showed me a video of him on the Internet and he looked just like a slutty little gnome. I am sorry, I like big strapping burly men like my Roger. “Men” like Mister Julien are ruining our economy. I do hope he dies a violent death! Just kidding, that’s terrible– I would never wish that on anyone. Except for those scoundrel Cincinnati BearCats! We are going to Whoop Your Ass!!!!!! Praying to God, at least. Go Buckeyes. And Go God.


10:04 by Ben Lerner

Well for one thing, I can’t stand this title. 10:04? Who’d pick that? My favorite time is 4:30. That’s when all my shows start coming on. Judge Judy, Judge Joe Brown, The People’s Court, and Cops. Then the news! I love the news. But I did NOT love this book. Sorry, Ben. There’s a bunch of pictures in here. This isn’t a photography book. What are you, Ben? A photographer? NO YOU’RE NOT! A POET. AND POETS ARE SUPPOSED TO RISE ABOVE. Ben did not rise above. This character just seemed petty to me. Nobody wants to hear about this cr@p. This book makes me feel like when you’re trying to comfort a friend because they’re crying, who you’ve been friends with for so many years, and then they try to French Kiss you. I hate those Frogs. Thank you for listening. Go Buckeyes!


Pity the Animal by Chelsea Hodson

This book is not a good value. There are not very many pages inside of it. Also the font is too small. It is also a rectangle and I think rectangles are really “played out.” I hate them. I am a circle girl. I don’t like things that are sharp. Except for Cheddar Cheese maybe. And that’s only on a sandwich. I don’t like the color green, either. Makes me think of Car Sick. Roger sometimes really mashes them brakes when going around those curves (and I am not talking about in the bedroom heehee I hope my kids arent reading this). Don’t drive with him on a windy road, just saying. But the writing inside redeemed it somewhat. I like this girl. She’s got spunk. She also reminds me of something that rhymes with my favorite dessert. S’mores. Sometimes a girl just wanna have fun. HAH! But I’m here to tell you Chelsie that I’ve got years of experience and sometimes there’s not much difference between a man and a toothbrush. They might be good for you but sometimes you forget to bring them on a trip and therefore you have to use one of those icky ones. But those get the job done to. But what I’m trying to say is this. Sometimes there’s not much difference between a man and a Chili Cheese Dog. Enough said. Pity that animal. You said it Chelsie. Go Chelsie, and go buckeyes. P.S. What is up with that art woman? Madonna Abrayvitch? Who named her? Why’d you want to stare at something you can’t even pronounce? This is america. My name is Dottie. You can say that easy. Just like chelsei


Wildlives by Sarah Jean Alexander

Now, I found this book on my nephew’s nightstand. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now! But no, I like to keep an open mind, which is something I think you’re supposed to do with people who wear used clothing. (HE SMELLS LIKE MOTHBALLS) ANYWAY I really thought this book, with its title and the ocean waves, was going to be a Wild Tale about the Ocean like my Favorite TV show, Deadliest Catch. LIES! I don’t think people should be celebrating wild lives. Lives are best spent safe at home (THIS is coming from someone with two speeding tickets! YIKES heehee) with their loved ones. Not to say I haven’t had wild times as a young woman like Alexandria Jean. One time I stole a 5th Avenue candy bar from a Western Auto. (They sell car parts.) I guess in this day and age you could write a poem about something as stupid as that. Back in my day you had to actually go do something before calling yourself a poet, like fighting wars, or killing a kid. Stealing a candy bar does not make literature. I know this. I didn’t even major in English and I know that. You’re also supposed to show and not tell. Show me the money, Alexandria Jean Sampsen!!!!!!!! I want my $14 back! Oh wait LOL I didn’t buy this book. Never you mind! OK time for bed. Gonna snuggle up to Roger now and dream of The Ohio State University national championships, where dreams and destiny collide. Go Buckeyes!


A Walk to Remember by Nicholas Sparks

Love it Love it LOVE IT!!!!! But I don’t love cancer. At all! Knock on wood. I do love books about cancer. My mother up in heaven died from the nasty stuff almost six years ago. Here is a link to the American Cancer Society, if you would like to read up on this terrible plague.

If that’s not your thing, like maybe you’ve already had cancer, here’s my favorite website!

GO BUCKEYES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

gonna WHOOP YOUR ASS tomorrow virginia tech! YOU CAN EAT IT.


Getting Started

Conquering the American Dream is surely no easy feat. Whether it’s achieving financial freedom or individual fame, it’s been said that it’s a game programmed, rigged, so that nobody ever wins. But that’s what “they” all say. You are here, reading because you are about to step foot into the Dream. You are about to commit to it. And, indeed, you are a player, one of millions that have said, with confidence, “I can win.”

To play, you must achieve.

To play, you must pay.

Knowing where to go, and what to do, well, that’s something else entirely. That takes us past the introduction and into the game itself.

If you’ve paid to play, you’re penniless and broke.

You’re starting right where everyone else starts.

You’re starting where plenty have ended theirs.

You start right here, with mission one.

You will need a number of items and possessions, but most will make themselves known with time.

You see thousands upon thousands of doors leading to opportunities but you need, above all, the keys to open them. You need the keys or the cunning to step foot through the door to your right, your left, and everywhere else you look.

You will also need identification. Drivers license, passport, a plastic card slipped between the folds of a wallet, you need to prove to all the other players that you exist. Your profile, your social security number.

Post registration, you will also need a purpose.

The Dream works only if you choose the right categories. What do you hope to achieve?

Wealth, luxury, notoriety, celebrity, all of the above? Fame is a common feature, if only because players identify effortlessly with the names printed across marquees, on billboards, the names of players that show up at the start of every new song.

You, as player, will quickly find a purpose, even if you are never able to decide and really—

The choice, it chooses you.

Over the course of the game, you will meet people that will become both friends and allies. You will want to keep track of everyone and, more so, keep close to the people that open doors for you.

Safe passage is all about the people you know.

Keeping track is as simple as knowing when to make contact; moreover, you will need to know when someone can help you. You need to be able to understand the difference between another player and one that could very well be a new platform for opportunities.

You will want to learn from your mistakes, figuring out who likes what, and how to reveal the best side of yourself for the given situation.

Not everyone will want to hear about your religious beliefs and/or political affiliations.

Obvious but still worth mentioning: common sense.

You need it to be a player that thrives in this game. You will quickly lose friends and subsequently opportunities if you, say, call people at two AM or pester them constantly, smothering them with communication.

Don’t push unless the threat is real.

One last thing before we begin. If you get stuck, feeling like there’s no way out—walls closing in—don’t be afraid to use a lifeline. What’s a lifeline? It could be a line of credit, a loan, a favor you haven’t yet used. It’s different every time but you need, need, need to know that the game is all about pressure and stress.

If you feel cornered, and you often will, you need to react, not wither.

You need to play the system. Don’t let the system play you.

The Dream is what you make of it. Don’t hold back. Don’t live in doubt.

It’s time to begin.


I walked around the lake listening to The Shins. I thought that if I happened to run into Mickey, and he happened to ask me what I was listening to (which he almost certainly would because that is exactly the kind of thing he is interested in) I would say “The Shins,” and it would be implied that I had been thinking of him while walking around the lake, because he had given me my first Shins album, and we had listened to it together frequently. It would be an overt implication, maybe possible only because of the psychic connection I had always felt we had.

Mickey called me before the first track on the album ended, before I had even reached the part of the lake where I usually sit and watch ducks for a few minutes before opening my sketchbook. Given that we hadn’t talked on the phone recently or talked much in any capacity in the last few months, it was safe to assume he had taken a few minutes to decide to call me before he pressed ‘send’ on his phone and the call went through, the same couple of minutes wherein I had been contemplating our accidental meeting at the lake and our hypothetical conversation about The Shins that would subtly but powerfully suggest that I had been thinking about him. In any case, it proved my point about our psychic connection.

“Hello? Mickey?”

I heard faint, muffled rustling of fabric and a long, intentional sniff.

“Mickey,” I said quietly, understanding that I had been pocket-dialed. I listened to the interior of his pocket or hand or backpack or whatever for almost a minute before realizing that he would be able to see the duration of this call, and hung up.

When I hung up my phone started playing The Shins again, only my earphones weren’t plugged in anymore so the music came from the phone’s speaker. I was mortified at the fact that the context of my music choice would not be understood by those around me at the lake, even though the only people around were two handyman-looking people and a group of ducks.

Too careful thoughts ruin my face.
It doesn’t matter. I’m already under my skin.
Who knows what this area’s called.
There’s a playground, loud music, shouting.
I like what Larry Bird said about race
in 1987: “I don’t care.”
I go back to the corner. I need a new mirror.
I don’t always look like this.

This science was the forty-sixth volume of animal.

Each member of the science received an allowance of one handmade wooden crown.

An isolated element in the process of science looked at the process of science and thought, “Why?” The process of science looked at the isolated element and thought, “I don’t know.”

Animal diseases were found in several different farms.

Restrictions were required to form new operational methods but it’s important to remember science already knew the answer.

If the center of an animal was removed from a body, the center would continue to blink warmly until its love was no longer a burden.

Equations containing animals were difficult.

Science had very little patience for excess amounts of untrained movement.

A thirty-six-year-old science and a thirty-seven-year-old science tried to determine if their results were potentially useful.

During an investigation of the heart when the foot of an animal was removed the nerves remained excited and muscles contracted.

Pieces of this science were not always science.

It was unclear how to process the resolution of doubt.

Known voltages were partially a source of conditional existence.

Weather claimed it was the first science.