Harris Sockel

Sometimes we fuck ourselves up. Sometimes we sell ourselves. Sometimes we get blown up. Sometimes we get put back together.

I was in that closet for ten years, and they were the best years of my life.

I will never stop lathering my soul in the sweet tang of a Pad See Ew.

Obama imagined writing a poem about this moment, and publishing it on a clandestine Tumblr under a pseudonym, and telling only Bo and perhaps his publicist’s gay assistant’s assistant.

Freedom is #hard.

This year, like every year, on the morning after Thanksgiving, I will go to jail.

In the supermarket yesterday, ten people said sorry by the protein.

Grey Poop: You are an introvert.

Take me out of this place. Bring a claw crane like in those machines at the seashore, and pick me up like I’m a stuffed seahorse.

If it’s a device, delete it.

Damn those kids with finished basements.

Don’t wait until the next aurora borealis and then (maybe) read, and then reply: “very thought-provoking!” Shoot me in the face.

You will kiss my triceps hard and suck the blood from my upper arms and it will tickle.

I’ve always hated the word vacation. I don’t want to vacate anything, don’t want to be vacuous, and, when I took biology, vacuoles were the things I hated the most.

I feel like my body is an inside joke and I’m on the outside.

I came because I wanted someone to sit me down and teach me things – to explain exactly what a sky is, what stars are, what a city is.

The next time we feel the full force of our computers’ retina displays and graphics cards. The next time we either die or turn our heads toward each other and feel it like a reflex.

I wish I’d hugged you until we became a Pulitzer Prize-winning portrayal of hugging. Until we could be the picture next to the word “hug” in the American Heritage Dictionary.