every time i try to spell brueggars i see dave egger’s name in there even though it’s spelled wrong.
when i think of dave eggers i think of that book he wrote that i haven’t read but still carried the title with me because i know if i read it i would absorb it in my body as long as i lived and i would have a weird lumpy skin tag in the shape of a book. it would be somewhere on my right side, between my hip and top rib bone. that’s the side i sleep on most, the reason my right leg always aches, i hope.
i wonder how i can write a heartbreaking work of staggering genius and i think to do that i would have to become all the heart and all the breaking and surrender to not ever knowing the space between ever again and i’m scared, i don’t want to do that and also i don’t want to be that and also maybe i can just be this bagel. a bagel doesn’t have to worry about taxes and saying the wrong thing and losing anything more than some sesames and also itself
the coffee here is terrible. i appreciate what they’re trying to do, the awake they’re trying to pronounce with thick burning aftertaste but the bitterness is messing with the way vintage nelly furtado and my big sweater want me to stay awake by the window. marisa was here before her class and we were talking about strangers with identical scars and the cosmic crash of the planets in my head when i’m sleeping. i met a son i had last night, he was breaking in the heart and i wasn’t allowed to hug him because he wasn’t really mine anymore and then i woke up still feeling like i let him down. who was that little blonde boy. and i’ve never been blonde but maybe once, i was. maybe once, i knew how to take care of more than myself.
there’s a jug in the shape of a fish over there and it would be great for holding scabs. i wonder if there’s a universe where scabs are used as currency. we’ll all be trading little pieces of ourselves for other little pieces of ourselves like we don’t already do that. we’ll all be flayed in the name of capitalism. i think we already are and anyone with a third eye already lives in the scabbed universe. i wonder if they can see into a place where we’ll trade ourselves in the name of the bubbles we fill each other with. i wonder how many three eyed people i’ve met aside from the one i know, i wonder how many of them know why i smile at my shoes on the train. i wonder how many of them can see right through me, know why the little blonde boy is sad. i want to know why he’s sad and i want to know what i did and i don’t want to do it again. i want this coffee to be better and i want this old song to flip into another old song and i want to stop smiling at my shoes because they don’t smile back and neither do you and i feel like i am breaking in the heart
but of course i know i’m not. not yet