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January 1, 2012 |

Two Stories

Gregory Sherl

Two Stories photo

 

Never Trust an Ugly Unicorn

Never trust an ugly unicorn. They’re ugly for a reason and they don’t exist for a reason, although that might be a completely different reason. It is weird to shudder in sunlight. I wish we still rode around in chariots and I wish my horses had armor plates on their shins, rocket launchers attached to their wings. Yes, my horses would have wings and my horses’ wings would have thought bubbles. Like this one: It is best to fall in love on a Friday. Or: The problem is, good songs never last long enough. The last time I played Duck Hunt, I killed something that wasn’t a duck. I never have to take a pill labeled MANIC, but I always have to remind myself to floss. Is the scary thing about blood is that it’s red or is that if you lose enough of it you will forget who you are? Who cares about the weather when there are roofs? Happiness is ice water that doesn’t hurt my teeth. I am working on self-publishing how I look both ways before crossing the street.

 

Meadow Poem

I’ve never fallen asleep under a streetlamp. If I did, I’d say You’re the biggest nightlight I’ve ever seen. I am out of iced coffee. I never think about shuffling a deck of cards or eating whipped cream from a plastic spoon. Instead, I think about space gas and how it flies across the sky so fast it feels like a parade only the sky can pause. I regret never inventing the hover board. I regret ever considering living out of a suitcase. I regret owning a suitcase. I regret not being dizzy enough from my prescriptions that are sitting on the kitchen counter. Now, they’re on the table. Now, my messenger bag. Eventually, my mouth. Does anyone still use erasable pens? I tell K Please be permanent. Like a marker. Like an expensive tattoo. I don’t want to think of a time when I don’t think about her. I am always awake thinking about K when she is awake thinking about me. Fuck Google. Fuck Yahoo. Fuck my grandmother’s cancer. Fuck never being in a meadow with a picnic basket, under a linden tree, swamped in a heart that goesmush mush mush. I can’t remember the last time I was in a meadow. I tell K Let’s go to a meadow and I’ll grip everything that reminds me of why I like being in a meadow.

 

 

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image: Ryan Molloy


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