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Notes from a Phone:

(By Línda Vanesa Perla)

I feel like I speak and nothing is heard.
I am a mute.
A literal
(as in the literature usage of the word)
A literal mute.
Which makes my heart ache
Through the smallest vessel causin’ a
tightness in my chest

I guess I wondered at where I would be now
But now is here
And I am no where new
No where apparently new
No where that could keep me
enough to be able
To stop from wonder where I will be

There seems to be a never ending
String of words that
Fall from my meat
My finger meat
to make meaning
To the thoughts that have no origin in actual
Rather in a mechanic way of dealing with life:
It’s fine though
The meat is cooked
I’m not that hungry anyway.

While on the bus
I write down little letters to myself
Little letters that may turn into something
Rather great if I were to only give them the
Change at resurrection
I don’t really understand if that’s a thing
Is it okay to call myself Christ?

If I refuse to look up
Does it make me liable for things?
Is it fine to remain complacent on the bus
When nothing but the crowding of it is what
is giving me anxiety?

To be an old man
Who at times feels as if he is hated
For being an old man
And having the image of being feared
Because he is an old man now
No longer young
No longer approachable
An old man who drowns out that feeling
Of being disliked and feared
By listening to music
That comes out of black headphones
With closed eyes
And a black leather jacket to break away
Why are you on this bus old man?
Aren’t we all college students?
I don’t mean to make you feel like everyone
hates you
Your hands are so neatly folded
Maybe I’m projecting
Maybe I’m the one that is disliked
By you’re still there, an old man
No longer young
Listening to some kind of music:
Same here.

I fall
And land
In judgement
From Family:
Concerning Mustache.
Yet I now sit,
In this grand chair,
Letting them come to me
On their knees.
I said,
“Stand back!”
I needed to eat my cheese
In silence
I am a reclusive cheese eater
Haven’t you heard?
Or have I lost you?
Come back.
I like YOU.
It’s THEM;
The ones I cannot stand
UP for

I wish I had a cool dad

Am I mean?
Am I rude?
Do I make people feel bad?
I’m sorry
But not really
I don’t want
I don’t care
Leave me alone
I don’t care
I’m sorry

If only there were ways to communicate the ways that one must fine.

My head beings to tighten up as if endorphins were trying their hardest to make things good again.

Seduce them into revolution.

The sack of potatoes I call my brain refuses to let me comprehend why you never leave or why I never ran after you. Which makes me think Makes me feel like it’s just a dream as I listen to the song “I eat Boy’s like you for Breakfast”

“We haven’t got very much money, but we’ve got youth, and, I think, talent. They’ll tell you the theater is dying. I don’t believe it. Anything that can bring us together like this, and hold us to this one ideal in spite of everything, isn’t going to die.”
-George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart


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