1) An unvert is neither an invert or an outvert, a pervert or a convert, an introvert or a retrovert. An unvert chooses to have no place to turn. —Jack Spicer
Toby Lee, guitarist and child prodigy, stares out from the computer and onto his bed but momentarily, lost among his various quirks and tradition- al guitarist twitches. He is hard- ly as historical as they are, these traditional glitches.
Unleash, henceforth, the 9am piece of misunderstanding (Oh, do come back Mister Under- standing…)…. Your promised plans make fucked up moves, make things like me hurt. That tough love disguised as bitter pills to toughen up or make one better? I’ve never been an easy scam (much as I tease so) but next to you I’m not but had. Isn’t that historical? As if the vapor of your fake death would deign to respond.
Without a map, without a dollar, without an aging couch, much less a familiar door to open (close and deadbolt), I find my- self (like I find Toby Lee). In this bubble of misbehaving, misbegotten emotion, I am left to face this farcical non-existence you invented for yourself, an omnipresent tension that turns out to be as real as your fake pills for love.
“Witches’ brew?” offers the magician’s assistant, as he lifts the gargantuan magic eraser up to the summer sun.
The lousy way you’re treating me is only hurt- ing myself. Mary very easily makes teacher’s pet breathe. I watch lovestruck just to further distance myself until I am well again. Enough of the hell you say! It was inevitably your choice that I chose incorrectly. I love you so much that you broke a record I set picking an ultimatum. In other shadows moping a- round inside your skull, distance is directly pro- portional to engagement. I look down feeling less heathen and negatively affianced. “We both knew this would happen,” says the finances to the ugly pile of material conquest. Ever the victim, I text via SMS knowing full well that to square off with reality is to disavow it. Like knock- ing on the door to a place you single-handedly just emptied only to find the table set like a midwinter holiday. (It probably goes without saying that you have arrived, as always my fairest delusion, for no other reason than offer the only tradition at which you’ve always been best: con- cocting the signature cocktail, of course. And this elixir? Well it is so good it takes me out to the ballgame and shoots you all the way to the moon where that fat ball of cheese is still having its way with you. Because, you see, it has stolen your playbook by playing the victim and pointing its fingerless blame right at me. And the stars? Well, they each have their turn with you, too. But they’re only extras scattered about in this rousing conspiracy. And while I sit but twiddling alone in a cavernous ballpark, the moon turns its cheese-riddled cheek to a new favorite culprit as you perform your final erasure, dissolving traceless into the Andromeda, a wasted and infinite expansion of space.)
Tiny Goals for Larger Days These people are not morn- ing people. These people are getting in the way. What is the opposite of two roads diverging? A bridge over troubled waters? Would you like to hang out today? I’m not certain I can do that. For one thing, I have to charge my cellphone (the days are endless like this). In my mind I’m thinking I owe him a dollar. In his mind he’s thinking he owes me an apology.
