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Whenever the trains speed in from different directions at the same time, the noise is the only thing you can feel in your head. It reverberates through every split end, fingernail, and freckle that hides on the small of your back. You know that in between Harrison and Jackson there are even more bumps and shakes then normal, and you spot the tourists and the new-comers as they stumble through their surprise. Eyelashes shake. Wrinkles quiver. The movement of the train echoes the shakes and stalls of your brainwaves. Whenever you sit in your room, laundry and work and takeout containers piling up around you, you can feel the rats start to crawl around under your skin. They scurry around through your stomach and up your throat, building a nest in your head that pounds into the sides of your skull. Come out, you shout, you want to reach down your esophagus and pull them out of your mouth, you want them to help instead of hurt, take the garbage out and fold the clothes on your bed and tap their little feet across your keyboard so they can finish your goddamn essay. But you can’t, and they don’t, they continue having babies in your ears and over your eyes until you just give up and go to sleep. Whenever you’re waiting for the Red Line, your eyes sweep up and down the tracks looking for life. You’re looking for little friends to share this wait with -- come up here, little friends, you can use my other earbud! You dream that they’ll sit on your shoulder through the wait and the ride and the walk up miles upon miles of stairs, because you know that escalator is never going to be fixed in THIS economy. You’ll share popcorn back in your dorm room and have fun times freaking out your roommate. You’ll live together until your little friend’s life comes to its end, and they walk their little feet into Rat Heaven where there’s cheese and popcorn and earbud sharing whenever they want. Either that, or you’re the kind of person that hopes the rat gets crushed by the train. Whenever you pass by PetSmart or Petco, there’s the urge to walk in and buy the place out. Hello sir, I’ll take all your adoptable kittens, after all, they keep trying to play with me through the glass. Yes ma’am, I’ll take some of those lizards off your hands, after all they look awful squished in there. Excuse me Mx., but those hamsters are just beautiful with their striped backs, and I always wanted one when I was a kid. But you stop in front of the rat cage and stare for a while. They are piled on top of each other napping, or wandering around their cage looking for games, or sitting on top of the water bottle, almost falling off, staring at their reflection, and you know they can see the reflection and know what it is and you think about this cage and this store and you want to buy all of them but you know you can’t so you’ll just wander in and stare at the rats for a bit longer and leave without buying anything and wonder if the rats in the CTA would know what to do with their reflections. You wonder if you know what to do with yours. You get home, and you stare.

i stumble blindly across this barren wasteland each twist and turn tumultuously teetering as i kick sand upward to a solstice summer sky grains now glittering crystals a thousand kisses on my skin set brazenly ablaze by the white sun beating down in all its burning glory the soles of my feet scorched charred almost black moving with these whirling winds that warp my waltzes put perfectly in-time by the devil with whom i must always dance who delicately takes my hand placed on his chest inside he says could be the heart i heal the touch i hold that may one day make him a better man dance again he says again again

Bellis Perennis I think I miss you. I’m not sure what of you there is to miss. Press me between the pages of your favorite book. Weave me into a crown. I am not sure what to do with myself these days. I miss you even as I remember your chubby child hands holding me too tight and the way my petals wilted. You didn’t mean to hurt me, but I think that makes it worse. Gramineae The grass is singing. You wait for the ticks to bite. Dalea Candida Somewhere out there is a pond and it stinks of algae and rot. Someone told you they dump bodies in it. You would not know it is there if not for the smell. There is an island at the center, and you dream of running away and hiding there where no one would find you. It is better to be a frog than a girl. Liatris pycnostachya I am not sure why I tell you the meanings of flowers. Once I saw my mother toss roses in the trash. “All flowers do is die”, she said. Silphium laciniatum Some wildflowers have no meaning. Daucus carota In the schoolyard red berries fell from trees which could not be eaten. A flower can be a hundred blooms. I collect bouquets and then have to leave them outside. They do not let me go out into the field, but they do not watch me either. Perhaps I should have run away. Perhaps I should have stayed. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I think that makes it worse.

The old, slouching house was an island on the flooded town. Its wooden porch bumped right up against the still water, soaking silently in the gentle waves. White siding drooped like tired eyes and every once in a while, a large piece of wood or a shingle slid off and disappeared into the liquid graveyard below. The last house left was home to the Adlers. When their neighbors evacuated, first by car and then by raft, they remained. Mrs. Adler was sure everyone had made quite a fuss over what was just an unusually brutal thunderstorm. “By morning, the streets will be dry and the roads will be clear,” she said from the porch. “Mark my words.” Mr. Adler and their son Ronnie did mark her words. And by sunrise, the sea had begun creeping up the sidewalk, lapping against the concrete. “Give it one more day,” she grunted from the kitchen window. “And it will all be gone.” Another day passed and the lawn disappeared. “Sweetheart, let’s get going,” said Mr. Adler softly. “I think it’s time.” But Mrs. Adler wouldn’t even consider it. This was her home, goddamnit, and she wouldn’t be shoved out by any thunderstorm or flash flood. “One more day,” she said again. “One more day and it will be dry as the desert out there.” Needless to say, it was not dry. The sky continued to unleash its vicious waters and the wind continued to berate the crumbling house. Yet still the Adlers stayed. One afternoon on the sinking porch, Ronnie and his mother sat on their rocking chairs and quietly watched the rain. This was Mrs. Adler’s favorite activity, and no longer able to go anywhere at all, she had turned it into a full-time job. “It’s only getting stronger,” Ronnie observed. “There’s a hole in the sky,” said his mother. “A great big leak.” “I wish we could patch it up.” He pointed to a rip in the screen door that Mr. Adler had covered in three evenly cut strips of masking tape to keep out the mosquitoes. “Just like this.” “A patch,” said his mother to the wind. “A patch. And the rain will stop.” She stood from her rocking chair and hurried inside, leaving Ronnie alone with the storm. She gathered every blanket and every pillow and every one of Mr. Adler’s old shirts. “What are you doing with my clothes?” he asked his wife. “I’m saving the world,” she called back, excitement and determination shining in her eyes as she marched up the attic steps. “I’m saving the world.” On the sprawling attic floor, she cut each piece of fabric into the largest square it could hold and laid them out in a checkerboard of gingham and florals and stripes. With the focus of a surgeon, she stitched together each piece until there were yards and yards of solid cloth. Yards turned into miles, and piles of patchwork filled the room. She left no piece of material untouched. The couch lost its cushions. The mattresses were stripped of their sheets. The carpets were gone and so were the tablecloths and spare towels. Every textile found its way to the attic, where Mrs. Adler sat through the days and nights stitching and stitching, listening to the rain fall on the roof like dropped ceramic plates. For months she did nothing but sew and sleep. Sew and sleep. Sew and sleep. One gray morning, just as the water was about to consume the porch, Mrs. Adler came barreling down the stairs, sweat flying from her brow and onto the hardwood steps where there had once been a plush runner. “I’m done,” she announced. “It’s done. The patch is finally finished.” Ronnie and his father looked up from their books. “Honey, that’s excellent,” said her husband. “We’re very proud of you. And the boys returned to their novels. “Well, come on,” she said, confused by their silence. “It’s time to patch it up.” “What do you mean, darling?” asked Mr. Adler. “The sky,” she replied, frustration rising in her voice. “We’re patching up the sky.” The boys exchanged a glance. Though only eleven years old, Ronnie understood the situation a lot more clearly than his mother did. “Ma,” he said. “I don’t think a patch will work. I think it’s done.” “What’s done?” asked his mother, concerned frown. “Well,” he replied carefully. “Everything. We’re the last ones left. And it’s been raining forever. They say on the radio there’s no more survivors in the whole town. They say it’s gone like it never happened. No one knows we’re even here. It’s done.” “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re speaking nonsense. Come and see what I’ve made.” With no choice, they followed the manic woman up the stairs and down the hallway and up some stairs again. Their footsteps echoed in the skeletal house, free of all its softnesses. Light fell in from the windows, throwing the rainstorm in shadow against the walls. Even inside, everything vibrated with the movement of water. Once at the attic, they found they could hardly go in. The bolts of tweed and wool and cotton were packed from ceiling to floor. It was a room overflowing with fabric, one giant square that folded in on itself at least five thousand times. “All we’ve gotta do,” said Mrs. Adler, breathing heavily from the walk up. “Is stitch this patch. To the sky. And the rain will stop.” Ronnie could hardly speak. He reached out to caress a square of suede that used to be his favorite fall jacket. He had nearly forgotten the feeling of fiber since his mother begun this project. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how much he missed it. “Ma,” he said quietly. “Let’s sit for a minute.” He parted the waves of polyester and linen and climbed into the woven room. Inside was a cacophony of colors, a parade of patterns, none matching their neighbor but all joining in a kaleidoscope of Adler history. He saw his father’s fancy suit stitched into the wall. He saw his mother’s silk scarf arc above him on the ceiling. And for the first time in what felt like years, he could not hear the rain. The quilted cave created a cocoon of complete silence. “Come in,” he yelled. “Come inside.” The structure opened in a diamond of light and his parents crawled through to join him. “I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Adler, looking around in wonder. They huddled together in the fabric attic and marveled at its beauty. And because of the silence, not one of them heard the screen door break from its flimsy hinges. Not one of them heard the waves crash against the hardwood floor downstairs.

I feel them day after day. I hear their secrets, small conversations that dwindle in the dark room. Once, there had been a time before them. But there was a time before them. The day I met Her we saw each other at the store. I knew we were meant to be together. I went home with Her, and I knew She cared when She carried me up the back stairs despite how heavy, helpless, and awkwardly shaped I was. From that day on we spent every night together. It was more than I thought I would have in my life, dare I say perfect. But I said it a little too soon, because He came one night, and He never left. I have to share Her now. I’ve tried many times to smother Him in His sleep. He lays there snoring, and I resent Him and His hot breath. However, I am useless. I am helpless. I can’t even smother a stranger. I know She must still love me though. She spent a whole day building a frame just for me. She still washes my sheets and puts blankets on me when it is cold. But then I listen to them talk quietly at night, and it makes me wonder if She ever loved me at all. I wonder, but in my heart I know She never loved me like that. I still listen to them talk in the dark. But it is different now than when we first lived in that small apartment with the green walls together. Back then they had been exciting in the way newness is exciting. They came with uncertainty, a twinge of awkwardness, and the inevitable fear that you find when you are vulnerable with someone else. At some point that excitement subsided along with the fear and the awkwardness, but I don’t think the vulnerability ever left. They would say the same things every morning and every night. “Good morning how did you sleep? Did you dream?” and before sleep “Goodnight, I love you, dream with me.” The same every morning, and every night. Every morning, and every night. A start and close as though without it the day would never really begin or end. I wanted to believe they had become predictable. If they were predictable it would mean they were somehow boring, or dull. Something all too describable. In their repetition of day after day I first questioned whether their words really held any meaning to them anymore. However, if I really believed they didn’t hold meaning, I know It wouldn’t feel as though the day never really comes to an end when one of them says “Goodnight. I love you. Dream with me?” and there is only silence in response.

May 11th The unstoppable rain cut the trees like razors. The grass and foliage drowned, forcing the earth to crater. Diego felt purified on his first day in Lacandona. The water had a way of silencing. It reminded him of the snow in Boston, where Diego spent five years studying the complexity of spoken language. Like water breaking a dam, he realized, that in order to understand language he needed to expand beyond the spoken word. Listen to what can’t be said. He walked through the jungle’s trails. Like veins, he thought. Diego looked at his map, only to see the droplets erasing his path. He felt the rain on his nose and hands. He was losing hope of finding what he came looking for. About to give up, Diego heard rushing water in the distance. He remembered his map was leading him to a river. With no options left, he followed the sound. He followed the sound for what felt like months. The rain ceased and the sun shone, revealing an orange tent. The shaman, he thought. The smell of burning wood, evidence that someone was there. A women robed in green emerged. She held a vessel with water to put out the fire. As the last of the smoke rose, Diego approached her and tried to say hello. She grabbed his hands, looked at him, and he knew he had arrived. There was no need for words. June 3rd His body was weak, yet the soreness felt rewarding. He had been working with the shaman for a month. Diego had learned how to speak without speaking. He had spent a day with the trees, a night with the stars, and another with the sun. Other days he spent them with himself listening to his thoughts, observing how words drift to ···· June 4th Reflected in the vessel, Diego saw himself. He saw the jungle. The same gaze that had welcomed him said goodbye. It was time to drink what would erase the boundaries of the spoken word. He lifted the cup to his lips. The cold clay merged with his tongue. He inhaled the smell of rain. The first sip felt like a waterfall running down his throat. The liquid hit his stomach, absorbed into his bloodstream. His eyes closed and he fell paralyzed on the ground, losing control of his limbs, the way branches sway when the wind sings. The shaman gently touched his forehead to make sure Diego was following the right trail. She left the tent and vanished into the jungle. Vines wrapped around his body, he felt the pulse of the jungle speaking to him. He surrendered not only his body but his mind in order to understand the language of unspoken truths. June 5th With the first light, Diego opened his eyes. He looked for the shaman, but she was long gone. It took a while for him to get used to his new eyes. He was greeted by the sun, the stars, and the trees. Now, he understood. He was able to speak, but there was no need to. On his hand, he felt a drop of water. He looked up and rain began to fall.

The math teacher talks about the probability questions in his class. “A” looks out the window, the game of poker unfolding on the grass collapsed by the wind. “A” is not sure whether this is a metaphor of something, but in the case without evidence, it’s unable to judge. The essay assignment for this math class is to write an instance that truly exists, to analyze it using probability and to get a logical conclusion verified by science. Here is the instance “A” writes down: This is about a romance that lasted for 700 years. Mina and Ginbo first see each other in an aquarium. This event has a probability of 0.000001% or 100 %, using probability questions to calculate. Mina and Ginbo spend a wonderful night together. Mina only spends that night with Ginbo, then leaves the next morning. There are two reasons that people won’t believe they are true love. 1—Ginbo’s weight is 25.4 times Mina's. 2—Ginbo and Mina have no way to recognize each other. Just by appearances, for the species that have huge differences, most of them may have face blindness on others. So it’s not Ginbo and Mina’s fault. Therefore, for the 100,000,000 humans Ginbo has met, he may recognize all of these humans to be Mina. Also, for the 100,000,000 white whales Mina has met, she may recognize all of these white whales to be Ginbo. This proves that their probability to meet each other is 0.000001% or 100%. They love each other deeply just the same, and while this romance started from the last century, it doesn’t need to wait until the day they meet each other to start. Even after they had met, they may not have recognized each other. They only need to perceive the existence of each other, and keep the whole romance inside their brains. No matter how people question everything, people cannot deny the truth of this 700 year romance on Mina and Ginbo. They are true love. Because of this, scientists can not prove that, without five senses, love can still exist. The math teacher questions the authenticity of this essay, while he thinks there isn’t enough evidence to prove that love actually exists. “A” has to revise this essay. “A” does not revise it, but continues to write. “A” believes that the best way to prove the authenticity is to provide more evidence. If the math teacher thinks this instance has 30% authenticity to believe, and his authenticity of his essay should be more than 90%, 30%+30%+30% equals 90%, which means that “A” has to use another 2 stories which have 30% authenticity as evidence, to make the math teacher believe. “A” writes down the next instance: The protagonist of this instance is a 30-year-old radish. This radish is still alive. He was uprooted from the soil 30 years before, and keeps living in a jar. With the growth of age, he becomes darker, now he is already black. No one can recognize him as that white radish. At the age of 30, the black radish can suddenly talk! You may not know, but the probability of a miracle happening a species can be very high if that species is a miracle species. As a miracle species, you cannot predict the species by yourself, so the probability of a miracle happening is about 100% minus the probability it exists as a miracle. For example, if a miracle species has a probability of 3% to happen, then the probability of a miracle happening it can be 100%-3%. You cannot refuse to believe humans’ judgements are limited, it is only restricted in a certain percentage. After the day that Radish can talk, he keeps talking. He wants to talk about everything he thinks in these 30 years. But there’s only one sentence scientists can understand: “I don’t want to live anymore, please kill me.” It actually proves the probability question when a miracle happens. In order to publicize this conclusion, scientists decide to put this radish which is able to talk into the science museum, then the radish can keep talking in front of the people who come to visit, and continue to live. Then “A” writes the last instance. Instance 3 Toward the common definition of “fly”—to move in or pass through the air with wings. there are a lot of bugs. Fly represents an action itself, but it cannot be restricted by the observers’ identities. We can tell that the wideness of acceptance of the vocabulary “fly” is less than 0.1%, and this number can be smaller unlimitedly. Take coral as an example, for corals living under the deep sea, in their perspective, the fish swimming above them are flying. But for humans, it can be very absurd to say fish can fly, because we cannot stop using ourselves as the observers to define all the behaviors, just like we do not stand in the perspectives of corals. Also for hamsters, humans can fly. For the hamsters we see in a pet shop, they always stay in an opaque box without a lid. When we try to watch those hamsters, we usually bend down or squat down. But in the perspective of hamsters, our bodies are the parts above that box, because hamsters cannot see the lowerparts of our bodies. So from their perspectives, humans can fly, the same as the humans see the birds in the sky. If the same thing happened to birds, there may be some parts under the ground, and if their visible parts are connected to the parts under the ground by some invisible substances, how can we know? To the problem that humans still believe firmly that they themselves cannot fly, it should be re-answered. Scientists are wrong to this point, they ignore the remaining 99.9% evidence gained when widening one’s perspective. “A” hands in the essay with perfect satisfaction, the sun shines brightly outside. The open trial of this essay will be in the math class next Wednesday. “A” won’t know at that moment, but this essay will be imprisoned, in a steel cage, compelled to proceed with its the photosynthesis.

Rarely have I ever seen someone who looks truly rotten. They don’t seem to show up often. Even the most miserable faces have some redeeming qualities. A tattooed cross on a forehead. A smirk. The aging scars from a blow inflicted by an addict with an axe, or, hatchet, to be accurate. These things add flair, a sparkle, though they rarely create networking opportunities. Glimpses tend to be short and lips tight when that type of people walk through the bus or claim a corner on a train car. A moose once climbed on a bus and was treated with more dignity. But, I have to admit, this moose looked better than you. When you showed up at my door with your red shirt I could see that you looked rotten. Your head was nearly scraping the roof above you as you stood lanky, snot dripping out your nose. It seemed like you had spawned out of some slimy pore that had long been forgotten and untended, hidden in the scalp of some Argentinian psychoanalyst with a bright imagination and a thick head of hair. You were projection. And trauma. You were a red shirt, eight feet tall and skin was your face. I haven’t seen, for instance, many faces lacking orifices, that can easily be considered, by our standards, as rotten. It was said that once, in a lush grove, you had stuck your head in a hole you had dug six days ago. The nearby villagers came to see it. A man with a holeless face had stuck his head in a hole on the ground. Excited children ran in circles around your eight feet tall body that sprung out of the ground like a palm tree. Flowers were thrown at your groin and slid sadly down on the ground. When you came back up, your face brown with soot, screams rang out in all directions as the villagers and their children witnessed a rotten face. This was 800 years ago, on the banks of a river. I digress. I saw your eyes covered by a smooth, oily skin, the color of mayonnaise that’s been left out on a scorching sun, flickered with the debris of a carcass that has fallen from a tall cliff. It made my skin crawl, and yours did. A weak web of cartilage covered your mouth and I could hear your attempts to mouth out a call to arms or a hymn. You looked like a worm. But you could move. Your arms grasped the walls. You loomed over me. You mouthed out your dinosaur salutes and although I could not understand them, I heard your sounds. They filled the empty space in my bedroom and bounced off the walls. And you slinked into my door, no more a physical space but resembling water, you passed through it.

sound muffled sight like a cheesecloth caught in a web a tear against the sky (a window) drips down (slips down, slip gown) glass ripping noise-- a stutter cry a shudder a shutter closed to suppress a room of blue¹ a room of feeling a room filled with glue a room where the orange² sun hits the wall and makes a kind of magenta³ color (re-member) how many feathers does it take to mark an empty grave because i grieve the truth* and the past even though they are not dead and drag on [cry, remember, try to remember] the fear of falling always follows even in sleep i dream of someone (a hand) letting go and i dread the inevitable feeling of being dropped, gold⁴ rings passed down a generation does she miss them? i struggle to find (a) room for my memories to resurface red⁵ and change but it’s hard six. 1 ladybugs on the walls, painted and real. learned what bones are. learned what friends are. 2 stuck on a dresser, can’t get down feel on fire. wake up to the sound of a radio. sit on the tub. snuggle in. 3 a lot of jumping. a yellow house. pretending. petting a dog a walk-in closet kissing a boy. 4 the moon. an ipod. pink walls (not mine). not mine not mine not mine. 5 ink stains covered up by christmas trees. stomping. hiding more than usual. seeing the sun more than usual. *as far as i know