Stephanie Heavan – Jaclyn MacDonald – Medium

I couldn’t sleep because I was on an air mattress.

It was the Hilton of air mattri, though, believe me.

Three tiered, plastic stinking, air filled head board.

Sick, backache, roly-poly, misshapen neck. The smell that you catch a quick whiff of

the next day after you shower.

The all day, every day red eyes, dark circles, the uh-huh’s.

The rubber, doctor smell.

It makes my body do weird things and

I read that there’s something wrong with you,

if you have a metallic taste in your mouth.

My stomach was upset again. It could’ve been

from the lovely restaurant

that we ate at too late last night. Or,

the 12 hours of traveling, the phlegmy smell

of airplane, and too much perfume

on a woman much too close.

It could’ve been from my birthday dinner,

when I had at least eight shots of tequila, and

attacked my roommate.

That could surely make someone sick.

I want to throw up thinking about New York.

It makes me sad, and makes me want to cry,

because it’s there and it’s happening

and I’m not.

And also, everyone’s doing it.

Throwing up, I mean.

Sometimes I feel like


or metaphorically,

or 100% honestly

spooning my eyeballs out.

But the 8 of us at an expensive restaurant across from the MET.

One large, bald actor is screaming about

how Mika fucked their accommodations

and that they were in “Noburg” where the

only train was the G.


The G “that comes like Haley’s Comet.”

Fuck Mika.

Sometimes I’m led to believe my own

lack of education and culture. We’re fake.

We’re all so fake.


you ever notice how trees know

what you’re feeling

better than you do?

Did you know that’s it’s 6:41? Right now.

Is there a time in heaven? heavan?

Or that you’d rather hear someone

with a speech impediment

read your work out loud,

than do it yourself?

Is being a hipster, the new

being a poet?

Poets hate poets, and they hate

poetry, and it’s so whatever.

And hipsters would rather be

incorrectly called Gothic

than Hipster. Still,

pen and paper is the heart and soul,

and riding a fixed gear is just good exercise.

And if I were to be honest, I still have no idea why poets break lines.


what’s the deal?

Is it art?

Is that a ridiculous question because everyone but me knows that it’s art?

Well, I’m art, and I’m licking the windows.

I’m really just trying to live in the now of 6:41.

Is the 6:41 in heaven the same as our 6:41?

Are we in the same timezone, or is everyone

in the same timezone as heaven?


So, I knew a girl in middle school

named Stefanie Heaven. Or Heavan.

Whichever way is not how you spell

where God lives. She

was suicidal and I had

to go to counseling because

she would call me talking

about wanting to kill herself.

She never did, and I

never knew why I was in counseling.

For the rest of my life

I would confuse

how to spell heaven.

Stop me if you don’t have the metallic

taste of irony in your mouth.

And speaking of irony,

Did you know that the actor

that played Henry V

named his son Henry?

This is Shakespeare’s legacy.

I mean, it’s romantic, but


he’ll have to teach little Henry

that you have to choose

whether you’re going to watch the movie

or read the subtitles. You just can’t do both.

Sometimes, I wonder if

my thoughts are getting fucked up

because of my Hilton bed, with it’s self-blowup, and

the impossible way it never wants you

to get out of it.

Or if the time is significant. Like,

because we’re poets, which I’m not, because fuck poets,

but that it’s romantic, or ironic that the time is never changing. I mean,

Happy 6:41 forever.

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