3 October 2017

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about a dent in the consuming rose.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about my former student who asks if he's ok.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about the way the P falls off the TSD.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about how not making sense of it yet will last a lifetime.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about how not sleeping is nightmare's discipline.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, the trauma-rama.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, how real in a false city.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, about my other former student who stayed 10 floors below that “monster.”

I want to write an honest sentence about how trauma takes the roller coaster through New York New York.

I want to write an honest sentence about the heads that blew off before he decided to run.

I want to write an honest sentence about how he just needs xanax because he can't breathe.

I want to write an honest sentence about how none of us can breathe.

I want to write an honest sentence about the bad air.

I want to write an honest sentence about the president who picks up a roll of paper towels and tosses them into the crowd like a basketball after holding a can of tuna up to the cameras.

I want to write an honest sentence about 23 people crowded into a hotel room wondering who they are now.

I want to write an honest sentence that is not consumed by rage.

I want to write an honest sentence of compassion, not “this country is so fucked up,” each hour on the hour.

I want to write an honest sentence about trauma, how it invites us into its hotel room and asks us to look out through the scopes at the still happy people.