“A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dippedCarrotOn my bed, my green comforterdraped over my knees like a lumpy turtle,I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us.In my own life, the years are beginning to stack uplike a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes,yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in.In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face,and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping woundthat ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpitholds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe.A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino.Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sandslie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache,Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question--If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you findtoday and tomorrow too loud?”

“I wrote this piece because my mailbox was full of bills, junk mail, and lettuce, but not a single letter from Andre Breton. So I decided I’d write to him (though I did eat my first two drafts).”

“I have a mustache like a squirrel and you just ran over my face.”

“If you come by my place, you might see a wheelbarrow full of broken bricks. I broke them with my fist. I was practicing for your face.
”

“I wish I had a crystal bowl to see into the future with. Every morning I would eat my cereal out of it while I read tomorrow's newspaper.”

“-Good thing you don’t own a mirror, Mr. Mirrorless, or you’d see how ugly you are.
-What makes you think I don’t own a mirror? Every face that ever looks at me tells me that I’m ugly. But every time I make them laugh, I get to show them what beauty really is.
-I see what you mean. Here, take my rearview mirror. I don’t need to carry it around like a vagina on a rope anymore.
-Mr. Thrustsalone, you don’t need to drag a vagina on a rope like some kind of pet on a leash to make you happy. There’s a reason why God invented right hands and hookers.
-Why, so politicians could have more productive ways to spend their time and our money than engaging in politics?
-Mr. Thrustsalone, you are wise beyond your years.
-I’m 88 years old.
-Yet you don’t look a day older than 87.”

“I’m tired of thinking about Agatha. Well, not about her, but about my loss of her. Today I went through some old boxes of mine and found some journal entries I wrote in the second grade. One was about the loss of a girl, the S name on my list, so I’ll copy and paste it for posterity:Today was a bad day. Stephany broke up with me for Tommy. I don’t like that slimy Tommy. Tommy is a turtle. I used to like turtles but now I like warm blooded creetures. Maybe Stephany is a reptile disguised as a human jerkface. I won’t cry because I am a soldier. Soldiers do not dispense tears. Soldiers kill their enemies. Tommy is my enemy. But the code of the moose says a warrior must eat what he kills. Does this mean I should have eaten my neighbors cat? I will not cry today or ever. I am fearless like my dad. My dad is a superhero. He is courageous and invisible. I haven’t seen him in four years. When I see him next he’ll probably tell me I am taller. Maybe I will tell him he is shorter. And fatter and balder. Maybe he will appear again and I can be normal. I would very much like to not wear wooden shoes anymore. Cats tongues are rough like sandpaper. Cats must never lick my shoes. Nobody licked my shoes the way Stephany did. I will miss her and her early-onset male pattern baldness.”