‘Daily…between Chicago and Los Angeles,’

I’m thinking about gold leaf diadems and when I say gold leaf, I mean that but I also mean golden leaves.

The cactus I got from Ikea a month ago (maybe more now) is no longer round (the main reason I got it) but instead has started to grow upwards. The other one on the window sill, at the end, one that I have had for years but has only just recently started growing again, looks stupid at the point where the growth has started. If it gets too large I wonder if it will be able to support itself, with a waspish waist and bulbs separating each spurt. There are a few others from Ikea that are also on the window sill and I worry that one is going to be distinctly phallic if it too starts growing up.

It’s not a diadem, it’s a headband. Who cares about the difference.

There’s a guy who forgets his car sometimes (which has its speedometer set in km/s instead of mph which might tell you about him) when he goes to collect potentially hazardous materials from construction sites and will arrive on the scene with his motorcycle and I miss him.

I think by the end of April I will probably have enough content to actually produce a chapbook assuming of course anybody wants to read it. There’s a Frank O’Hara poem titled “According to Plan” and I cannot help but feel it so deep. You don’t understand the words, you just write them, because they’re what you know. What’s the difference between me and the cactus.

Sometimes I don’t even want to brush my teeth when I get home; I just want to curl up in bed and die, even though I know if I don’t my dentist will make me feel ashamed about it because if there’s one thing that’s a requirement for being a dentist, it’s knowing how to make people feel embarrassed and ashamed of the things in and the things that come out of their mouths.

There aren’t so many things that I have left to do before Spring Vacation (actual assignments that were assigned for the break period) that I feel like I’ll be working on those during my “time off,” just enough extra that I will be.

It’s not even real gold leaf, it’s fake.

I get ready to rot by playing with the coyote bones on my bureau.



Author: jillboger

Part time writer. Editor-in-Chief for the Bridge volume 13, former EIC for The Odyssey at BSU. My glasses protect my secret identity.

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