Honeycomb Trubbul

Honeycomb Trubbul


I hold my tea bag like a fishing line and try to say that I understand

why I can’t describe myself as “corpulent vapor” in an essay about

my intellectual humility but I am bewitched by the extra thumb on her

right hand and I am pleased by how she took the time to paint the tiny nail

bright red and I really want her to hold the paper between the two thumbs,

gripping it with conviction because she has her doctorate in extra appendages

and she can smirk because she also has a third nipple (it really just looks like a

sand-colored mole — there isn’t much of an areola but that’s a technicality) so her

research has two-for-one or three-for-two experience to make an otherwise

opaque dissertation much spicier.

I interrupt to ask if she would like a squirt of my unscented hand cream.


Recently I have been stomping in a verbal circle declaring my love for all things “bad and dumb” and providing emphasis by violently shaking my breasts

which I highly recommend but if that makes you feel excluded or lonesome then I offer an alternative method of slathering the pinkest pink (it costs ten dollars)

all over the little caverns of flesh so that the hair looks fabulous and bellicose and begins to crust over very quickly so you will eventually have flakes of

the pink trailing behind you at the supermarket but if you go this route I insist that you add in a few cartwheels using only the middle fingers and wink with

both eyes at the red-vested cashier before buying your favorite breakfast sawdust.


I would like to see a show of hands for everyone who has ever seen something so beautiful and perfect that they hurry to take a picture to show their best friend on the city bus or their mother

while sitting at the lemony yellow kitchen table but the photo never shows how the blue sky and the blue sea seemed to fuck each other while the pier watched them and jacked off

or how the sunflowers reenacted a battleground scene while a little kid lets a red Popsicle melt off of the stick and onto the striped shirt that he hates

so what seemed like carelessness looks a little diabolical and I am thinking about

all of this while using my best professional voice to talk to this woman at my desk but I am sort of fingering the sandwich waiting for me in my knapsack and I wonder

how many people who would raise their hands about the photos also want to be dismissed from having to talk about pricing

because they didn’t come shoving out of the uterus to wear brown pants everyday

and not read their books about sadomasochism in art or eat French fries.


It’s a dead hour in the middle of February and we are kicking it in my 2001 silver spaceship when he asks me

“what makes you think you can just write a poem in ten minutes with your dull-ass pencil and somehow everyone is going to love it?” and I shrug and

tell him I don’t and then ask him to pass me a cowboy killer even though I don’t ever inhale and I wrap

my fuzzy black sweater with the goofy flowers around my head because I don’t want to smell

like a poker game and I feel like this dude is onto me because I don’t really care about Pink Floyd and he asks me which album was my favorite

so I just tell him I like all of them and he chortles, Jabberwocky-style and I realize there is no non-exhausted way to tell him

my moon sign is Libra or to throw confetti out if my pocket as if to prove no point at all.

I ask myself what cute means and if that is what I am but I venture not.


Today is a diamond day because I lay out in the sand and it feels like velvet and I announce that problems don’t exist because all I need

are the fragments of seashells I befriended although initially I distressed over their separation from the rest of their bodies but

they make a friendly sound when you slide the ridges together and I set them on top of the bottle of limeade with the lid with the lizard on it

(I have a problem with collecting garbage can treasures, little piles of foreign currency or old Kah Blanco Tequila skulls)

and I point at dogs and pull at loose eyelashes and I take a gulp of salt air and

I can announce that I am the king of joy I am a lightning rod I am orange Jell-O I am a four-legged ladybug I am a freak in Mary Janes and a bolo tie I am off-leash I am a sexy monster I am a cumulonimbus baby and

I know tonight I will remember how much money I spent but I won’t consider it wasted because I smelled a thousand good smells and watched the Don Corleone of seagulls flaunt the fish it caught in front of everyone else and I showed off

white scratchy legs in tandem.

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