"We got married at a protest. We think alike. And we party alike."
"I’m having some trouble with my friends."
“I think we’re just reaching the age when everyone realizes that everyone talks behind each other’s backs.”
"She won’t talk to me until I get my shit together."
“Every man has a She.”
"I’ve got a whole stack of books in my cart. Most of them are advance copies. I know a place where they get thrown out."
“How many books have you read?”
“So why are you homeless?”
“I’ve tried to work a job a bunch of times. But then I get sad, and then I get high, and things fall apart.”
"One day you’ll feel eighteen, look sixty, and wonder what happened."
Wendell is hands down the greatest homeless fashion designer who ever lived. He makes almost all his clothes from things he finds. I hadn’t seen him in awhile, so I was quite thrilled to walk up on him Tuesday, doing this to a Gandhi statue.
"You know where the real money is? Porno."
Medical marijuana is legal in 20 states and the District of Columbia, but there are still use cases that are very controversial, like medical marijuana for children. Some claim it’s a wonder drug for epilepsy, severe autism, and even to quell the harsh side effects of chemotherapy, while others decry pumping marijuana into still-growing bodies. We went to the small town of Pendleton, Oregon, where medical marijuana is legal, to visit Mykayla Comstock, an eight-year-old leukemia patient who takes massive amounts of weed to treat her illness. Her family, and many people we met along the way, believe not only in the palliative aspects of the drug, but also in marijuana’s curative effect—that pot can literally shrink tumors.
The way that we are, we feel without care, without regress, we love sometimes so transparent, and it feels better than drugs.
Professional present tense youth tribe.
We’ll tell you what we think and we’ll be nice but thorough and firm. As we will back you up with ferocious love and cook you eggs and waffles in the morning when your bones are too heavy to rise from your floral linens.
We are all grown up. And tonight is the best night we have ever had.
There is a violence about
the writing process that terrifies me.
A carnage I wasn’t prepared for.
Lately poetry for me has meant tearing out
hunks of my insides the way you carve
the flesh out of a melon.
Maybe I’m not doing this right.
Hurting myself and calling it art.