"Fame" by Brandon Freels

As if sitting alone in the dark is all it takes. There I am, meditating behind the blind man’s eyes. The mirror-mother births twelve mirrors and an empty frame. I pretend to love her cinematheque of crying babies. Peaking in each one, I see Jesus spazzing out on a milk-white saxophone. People often tell me I look like Patton Oswalt or Silent Bob, and (if they’re nice) Shooter Jennings (Waylon’s son), but no one ever says I look like Jesus. I shave my head, remove my chin, cut off my fists, scoop out my eyes. I throw myself in front of a limousine. Is it enough? With so many celebrity birthdays to celebrate, how can I remember my own? Walking down Frenchman Street some guy yells, “Hey Meatloaf, I have all your albums.” He gets it. The head is just an echo chamber for suffering. Waking up depressed is a common thing. What can you see when you turn off the lights? 

"Dick" by Brandon Freels


Here’s what we’ll do: chew up a slice of pizza. Spit it out in the shape of a ball. Bury the ball under a patch of dirt. That’s how nature grows. I've missed so many funerals this summer that my skin is covered in tiny coffins. They’re like beads of sweat that I can’t wipe off. At night they shiver in and out of their holes. I remember when I saw her in the psych ward. She drew a picture of a dick with my name on it. “I’m so sad,” she said. “And you, you're just a dick.” I use Google Maps to retrace where that hospital was. A triangle, like an alien language, points directly to the center of the Earth. How far back is that moment? Why do I have to travel underground? Chew me into the shape of a ball. Bury me inside the Earth. It's hard to have fun when all your friends are dead.