Jenny Catlin


I paste the block.
I don’t do the dishes and my boyfriend doesn’t love me.
I paced the block.
I haven’t called my mother in a week, except to ask about her surgery.
The block is solitary.
My boss makes fun of me for my professional voice, so I speak to her more professionally.
This block is six hundred steps to the stoplight.
I ate a cake in bed, a whole cake, so decadent even the checkout girl made fun of me for buying it.
I stack two blocks; I want to make a pyramid, a tome.
How did I end up in L.A. anyway? I meant to move to Idaho, I hate people and sun.
The corner of the block always smells like roses, but I can’t find any rose bushes.
I don’t make my sales goals, so I stop trying.
I mean to stick to primary colors, but the third block is teal, because it reminds me of the ocean.
I can only get my poetry accepted on porn sights; I wonder what that says about me.
It’s driving me nuts on this block, where are those rose bushes?
I lie about my age, I lie about my boyfriend age, I make us closer in years to strangers who don’t care.
The glue is seeping out of my block stack, but I decide to call that art.
I wear the same dirty dress to work every day, I wonder if anyone notices the cum stain.
The Korean man at the liquor store on the corner of this block knows all my secrets, no matter how long I’m sober.
I can’t quit smoking, I’ll never quit smoking.
I won’t make a pyramid of blocks, I’ll have a burial at sea. 

Jenny Catlin lives, writes and works a menial job in Los Angeles, CA. Not necessarily in that order.

Pic courtesy of whichoneispink

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