metro raze all my small stories stand alone. some are only one sentence long. i don't remember writing any of them, but the penmanship checks out. i talk about poetry and memoir while he stacks chairs upside_down on top of unattended desks. he conflates the two words in his mind and cuts them in half. "what's metro?" he asks me. out in the hall, there's a girl named for a copper coin that's no longer a valid form of currency in this country. the third floor is where i need to be. a set of stairs too steep for climbing is an improvised soul song. "how do you fake it?" i sing. "how do you make it?" these are questions that answer themselves, but only if you get past the first verse. and i haven't thought that far ahead. 250313 what's it to you? who go blather from