Look,

Sometimes, I sees a girl.

I should hit on her.  

Wait a minute—I'm going to hit on her!

So I quickly run through the pick-up lines I wrote the previous night

that I stayed up memorizing.  

I start psyching myself up.

She looks over and she sees me slapping my chest,

multiple times

I'm about to do it.

I'm about to hit her with it.

She's going to go home and dunk her head in water. 

As I'm about to speak, I start crying.

My lips are trembling, in a sad clown face.

She goes, "Okay, let me hear it."

"No!"  I pout.

"Come on," she encourages me.

"Okay, " I finally ____.  "What are you looking at!  This isn't a dance show." I says, disgruntled, sniveling.

"Concentrate."  She goes.  I was arguing with by-standers.

"Okay," I says, wiping my nose with my shirt, and my tears with the palm of my hand, "but I have to read it...I'm not well..."  I start flipping through my pocket notebook.

"Okay."  She goes.

"Okay—Oh!  I like this one!"  She sees my face light up.

"Okay.  Give it to me."

(Backdrop) Tosca w/ Earl Zinger: Wonderful

you are a broken lunch box,

there's a note with crayons

from you and cookies,

with ridges wishing me 

the best day! 

and study hard

in the sun i sweat

and my nose itches from spring

and you cN't hide from the sun

but lunch is fun, Jason is our best player

He's Michael Jordan, cause he's black;

Nick is Larry Bird, he's white

1pm class and my water bottle is warm,

ice melted from the morning

you can't hide from the sun,

teacher turned the lights off

so we can cool off and do some reading

i smell from sweating 

but the girl next to me smells too

she has a cute smell

i have a crush on her

she watches the game with her girlfriends

im not good at basketball

but once in awhile 

she sees me score

your memory is a worm in the dirt 2

in my broken-box

there's a picture of you,

ripples in the waves of

an existential whirlpool—

firmware matter, like glue

thankfully, not hardware.

You are an ache in my soul,

a spasm in my back when

the weather is damp...

You look a bit older now,

like I imagine your mother,

like you are living a full life, 

enjoying things, to say the least.

You are the pangs of consciousness,

like a dream that has abated 

like numbness that's no longer sharp

sickly pleasure burning, more wretched 

than foul discontent,

lingers the odor with the coming of the interlopers,

of love, passion or lust,

that animals can't convienently pretend