Two Straightforward Works

Some Things I Heard Across This Long Year

–––They found a lump in Mom’s breast. She had a doctor’s appointment today in the city. But she says that it’s very common. And that it could be nothing. And that it’s usually nothing. And that it’s probably nothing.

–––There’s so much dog shit at the Kennedy Compound. They really don’t clean up after their dogs.

–––Goodbyes––they’re bad for business.

–––Honey, I’m a beautician, not a magician.

–––It’s about a lesbian who learns how to ride a bike.

–––It’s about this West African guy who moves to Kansas City.

–––I like early Marilyn Manson.

–––Sweetie, you’re not getting into Camelot.

–––A douchebag civilian with the body of Bart Simpson.

–––Three bedrooms, one bathroom.

–––My first kiss was here.

–––I’m not good at organizing things into a clear narrative.

–––I’m sorry. I ordered a smoothie. This is iced tea.

–––Many memories know his hands!

–––Are you still stone cold clean sober?

–––You really want to hear about my acne?

–––He’s a Jewish woman.

–––I do not want the worst case scenario.

–––I’m yeaving jou.

–––Stop!

Activists

2005: My favorite people are slapping me around. Bedroom-breaking my life. Taking me with salt. My grandmother used to say, “Your health is your wealth.” I could never behave myself. I always go out of my way to give coins to the needy. Not everybody does that. Every friendship is an extortion. I am not getting hurt. A headache I’d give anything to lose: A bullet in the back of the head would be perfectly adequate… A wet blanket stuck in mud––a worst case scenario––but a life of sorts… Sometimes I’m sitting still. I’m talking about when I start swearing on my uncle. Then I get myself down to the street, which gives me a poster for some extraordinarily missing people: car, dog, girl, and boy: gone, gone, gone, and gone. Brand new groundbreaking restaurant. Peasant food done well. Closed all week due to bereavement. The usual same-sex marriage petitioners. And then the sad woman gives me a bad haircut. “Sick in the head, not exactly sick in the bed.” I could really give a big old fuckity fuck. I’ve had a life already. What a malicious ripoff. I can’t stop burping. And sometimes, my bowels run loose. I smell problems that are too good to ignore; alone with God I feel extremely answer-optional. Before he successfully completed suicide, I knew something terrible was about to happen––I have to admit. Just this time last week I also wanted to put myself down more than ever before––you know, perform euthanasia on myself––like a cat, dog, hamster––but the supplies are too expensive, and it’s such a messy operation, and the laws need to be changed. Next week, I’m planning to protest in front of the state capitol building, an hour away. Like! Hello! People! Stop!

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Myles Zavelo lives in London. His writing has appeared in Joyland, Grand Journal, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere.