Little Caesar's

We had seven maybe eight pizza boxes. We were, as earlier stated, a cliché college house. We had collected the boxes over a length of time unknown to my roommates, myself,
and probably God. These pizzas accompanied football games, hangovers, and nights when there were no clean dishes—often various combinations of these.

We had at least ten pizza boxes and I had the day off. It being the heat of summer, I woke up early. It was noon and I had at least ten hours to kill before I was going to go back to my cave and sleep. It was hot. There was no need for a fire. But I had time and pizza boxes.

I lost my shirt after the first four started burning. Cardboard burns hot, and it was summer, and I was alone, and I don’t need a damn reason to take my shirt off in my house. When I threw in the next three, I lost my pants; which invention of a fire dance. The dance consisted of a pattern of thrusts and shakes and something like a wobble. If my roommate hadn’t walked in before I burned the next four, I think I would have looked quite silly. But as it was I was only mostly naked dancing in front of a burning pile of Little Caesar’s at one o’clock in the afternoon. Nothing silly about that.

My Brother

[I suppose this is some sort of flash fiction or something]


My big brother used to come home from work and eat frosted flakes with me. We’d sit out on the back porch and talk about girls. He’s the one who convinced me not to quit the football team, and taught me how to swear.

He was an asshole too. After he moved out he got mean and drunk. Once he showed up late and punched our dad in the face. Broke his nose. My mom and sister were crying and I told my brother he’d better leave.

I saw him two weeks later. He asked me for money and I asked him about girls. Both our answers were disappointing.

This Morning's Thoughts

I wish oatmeal tasted more like frosted flakes
I would be a better man if it did.
The coffee makes me feel like I’m in a commercial
only there is no attractive woman bringing me my coffee,
just my housemate Caleb, and the memories aren’t Vienna,
they’re a truck stop in Montana on a road-trip to Yellowstone
with my dad and uncle after my uncle started to dose at the wheel.
I used to only be able to listen to finger picking in the morning
now it’s overwhelmingly positive pop music or metal.