I have the flu but took a couple tabs of Nyquill so I may be able to
get to sleep. I'm in a good mood because my half-brother, who receives
a check for being schizophrenic, wrote on one of the pieces of paper he
leaves around our Mom's house: "Thou shalt not fuck with Mr. Sean Corey
Carter." This is a Jay-Z lyric. But Jeremy knows very well that Jay-Z's
real name is spelled "Shawn;" he has been a devoted follower of Jay-Z
since high-school and he's two years my senior. No, he gave me quite
the compliment and I appreciate it. He is tall and handsome with a
noticeable streak of Indian blood. For some unfathomable reason, he is
capable of great kindness and great cruelty.
My Mom has gotten me sour jelly-bellies for Easter. I greatly enjoy
fruit jelly-bellies but I can't eat the sour ones because they strip
the dentin from my sensitive teeth; we poets are sensitive in 101 ways.
Nonetheless, I'll try one or two, holding them against the tip of my
tongue to truly savor them, a dessert eating technique I learned from
reading Cosmpolitan, a mainstream woman's magazine. Despite the mix-up,
she is a wonderful Mom and she is the light-house that has kept me from
I have long struggled to make evolutionary gains and also look out for
the interests of our species the planet as a whole. A few of my small
enterprises are starting to pay off. I just graduated from Southern
Oregon University with a degree in English and a 3.3 GPA. And I'm far
from sure they're going to work, but I've got tricks up my sleeve.