Reply To: Week 3 Posts – December 5th

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Hello all! Since I am late to the game, a quick intro. You can call me Frankie or Francis, I respond well to both. (I also respond to anything Buddy calls me.)

Random factoid: No one knows exactly how eels reproduce.

Sharing this piece that was inspired heavily by yesterday’s prompts. Note that the title is very much a joke, open to suggestions.

Word doc: Attached.
Google doc:

A Shitty Poem I Wrote for Buddy Wakefield to Tear Apart Based on a Prompt He Gave in the Same Class, a Working Title (Or How I Stopped Caring and Learned to Love the Dolphin Thermos)

Francis Thomas Sanchez II

Gather around the Christmas tree and listen, it does not matter what we call a thing. The majority of every atom is empty space. Ring a church bell and roll with it. We are made up of small facts. Nana always said, the devil’s in the details, and it always made me want to roll my DNA across the dinner table and say, show me on the double helix where god lives, I’d like to work on our chemistry. On the opposite side of the family, Grandma once told me and my cousin that we were both going to hell, and I think she meant it. So much as any human can mean that type of thing.

By that age I had jumped so clearly out of the deck that only a magician could call it what I am. Queen of hearts. Nine of cups. Four of everything. Sleight of hand. Tell me what it’s like to be your own beard. Answer promptly. I cannot tell you when I stopped jumping for joy. When I stopped wanting to be an astronaut, was it because I knew I was bad at math? How can one even be bad at math when numbers are just made up. I will die on this hill, only poets should be allowed into outer space. And so far, I have no proof that isn’t the case.

The truth is a solar system. I never stopped jumping for joy. I just got better at hiding the small leaps for mankind that happen at my end of the telescope. How I once took my shirt off in the dark and saw static electricity shuffle around my body. I nerded out like the first time I got to drink the church wine. Holy grail. I want to be discovered like that. You can find me jumping out of my skin most nights if you cared enough to join me. I can’t promise that my conversations will steer clear of algebra, but there will always be recess. Even if I was never good at jump rope, I was always good at building tension. Don’t get tripped up.

Both my grandmothers left this planet in slow motion. They had a blast. With everything they carried, I hope they got to feel like the North Pole on the day after Christmas. A carol of release. Everything delivered. On time and wrapped. A gift. Imagined or not. Magic stretched to the width of the world. We can all relax, there’s a good chance that god has not yet recovered from the seventh day.

The next time I’m asked to say grace, I want to tell my family that forgiveness and acceptance are the same damn thing. Two tusks on the same elephant that’s been standing in the same room since you came out of the closet, rookie. We have got to learn how to discuss the pachyderm in the room without becoming poachers. It’s our expectation, gone all oversized mammal for want of being met. The way MythBusters laid waste to the idea of a bull in a china shop. It’s just your brain biting at the past. An insatiable bear trap. Still hungry, no matter how much you step into it. Trading all the synonyms of comfort for a chance to feel like a dolphin jumping head first out of the water to put a star on top of a tree.