Tag: humor






First, cords like brambles

crammed in the crevasse

between the wall and the

entertainment center.


Second, the wire brigade

with their plug diagnostics

and electrical metering,

mapping the genome of the

audio-visual interface.


Then, the ground crew techies

with their bundles and rolls

of electrical tape and

outlet covers, bristling

with manuals and warnings

for parents about children

—batteries not included.


All for the finale flip

of the switch, the

glorious gentle glow

of the stirring screen



Oh, the auxhilaration!



True Love

Llama Love

True Love


“You want to do WHAT?”

“Marry him.”

“But… he’s fictional—”

“And perfect.

“And I wrote him into existence.”

Romantic, isn’t it. I just can’t wait to—”


“So what?”

“So what what? Are you going to put the book on the altar and…”

“Yes. Won’t it be wonderful: I now pronounce you book and wife. You may now kiss the book.

“You’re unwell. I ought to call the—”

“Oh hush up. It’s true love. Don’t be jealous.”

“Jealous? I’ll try really hard.”

“You never were much of a Romantic.”

“That’s why I write about friendly, dignified, personified…”

“…DREAMY! Don’t forget to dreamy.”

dreamy, and apparently attractive llamas!”


Looks Like a Pretzel


Looks Like a Pretzel


He told me it looks like a pretzel, but isn’t.

But isn’t? What looks like a pretzel but isn’t?

A tangle of noodles? The Gordian knot?

A piece of pastrami that’s twisted a lot?

Infinity, broken and drooping? A sin?

The handles of scissors? A pretzel-shaped pin?

The shape of an ear if you squint your left eye

and turn your head sideways? A smile in the sky?

A shredded umbrella? The orange of a peel?

(Or peel of an orange if you get what I feel.)

Two italicized e’s with a mirror between?

The path of a shirt in a washing machine?

The wires in your brain? The shape of your heart?

A crumpled up dumpster posing as art?

He told me it looks like a pretzel, but isn’t.

But isn’t? Let’s just say it doesn’t.


Antimetropia {flash nonfiction}



When my younger brother got glasses for the first time, I pitied him. The glasses looked so silly on his first-grade face, too big. They had zigzag, glow-in-the-dark lines along the sides and he thought they were cool. I didn’t.

My freshman year of high school I worried that my eyes were slowly going blind. Words blurred, lights smeared, and I couldn’t read the digital clock in the kitchen from the couch anymore. Entropy, it seemed, would serve fate on a silver platter and I wouldn’t even be able to see it coming. The future depended upon my ability to counteract the inevitable, so I went to see the optometrist.

After submitting myself to the air-puff retina photography machine, and a tedious game of lens-swapping—1 or 2, 3 or 4, 5 or 6—I sat in an office awaiting my verdict. Guilty. It had to be guilty. Poetic justice for thinking my brother looked dorky when we were both in elementary school. Dorkdom called and they want you to come to lunch. I sat on the sticky teal examination table and closed my eyes in resignation.

“You have an unusual pair of eyes, did you know that?” the optometrist said, straightening the papers in her file.

“I do?”

“You have one near-sighted eye and one far-sighted eye, a condition called antimetropia.”

“Is that bad?” An image of having to carry around two monocles filled me with dread.

“In your case, no. You have a very light case of antimetropia. Some people have operations done on their eyes so they have what you have naturally.”


“Your eyes compensate for one another. That’s probably why you didn’t notice much until high school. You don’t have to have glasses, but they will help you see more clearly. You will need two pairs of glasses, one for near activities, like reading books or using the computer, and one for far activities, like driving or reading the board in class.”

There it was. My sentence. Not to merely be a four-eyes, but to be a six-eyes.

When my younger brother saw me wearing glasses for the first time he smiled. I think he guessed at my secret pride and reveled in my newfound humility.

“Nice glasses,” he said. His sarcasm tasted like strawberry lemonade, sweet and biting.

“Nice glasses-es,” I corrected him, pulling the second pair from my pocket.

“I’m so grateful you won’t be bumping into the walls at night anymore.”

“Me too,” I said.

“It’s about time you saw the light.”

Yeah, I thought. About time.


Some Say It

Google Translate is back. This time, Google Translate will be performing “Say Something” by A Great Big World. If you are unfamiliar with the song, check out the YouTube video below. It’s a one of my favorites from the past year and very sad song, but Google Translate has a knack for lightening the mood.

Some Say It

[Google Translate performs “Say Something” by A Great Big World]

I must say that.

You can give.

I want you to be.

They are everywhere!

I must say that.

 You can give.

So this is it.

This is a disaster.

I tripped.

I like to read; you should start.

I must say that.

 You can give.

Unfortunately, we did.

They are everywhere!

I speak.

I can give you my swallow-sense.

You are not in love.

And let us…

If possible?

And I—I cannot get upset.

And I’ll follow.

I must say that.

You can give.

I must say that you can give.

Some say it.