What's up, sluts.

That's not a question. I just remember driving around with my old friend Wiley after swim practice one day in his '61 Falcon, out shirts off, thinking we're cool, blasting Zao, and being stopped at a stoplight where these two girls were waiting to cross the street, and, just before we pull away at the green light, Wiley's little brother Wes pops his head out the front window from the back seat, right next to my ear, and yells at them, "What's up sluts!" and just starts dying in the back seat. We were seniors, he was a freshman, so we played it cool--told him it wasn't funny and didn't laugh until we dropped him off at home and we went to the vollyball game at the rival school or whatever. Obviously we didn't go in to see the game, but just drove around and around the parking lot, mobbin', creepin' up to girls and yelling right behind them,

What's up, sluts.



Today's been a long, lame one; I needed to retell a story like that to keep me going. On an up note, I'm writing a lot this week, and so far it's all been in one poem. If this keeps up I could have an epic on my hands (until I realize it sucks and use it to paper mache a baby jesus for Halloween (I'm up for workshop that day, and so is a girl in my class, Mary, so we're doing the whole nativity thing). I'm reading the poem *Changing Light at Sandover* right now on the side, and if you need something new to pick up, man--do this thing.

loves around, dear friends