Don’t dip your pen in the office inkpot

Preeti Vangani

The movie with the 80s actress is the appetizer served at the beginning of parties that try too hard to be classy. The question of the lead’s sexuality is left open. No definite end. Like life. Like death. Like casual sex. Like my colleague says he will never let his future daughter have casual sex as he spoons me after casual sex though I know this daughter will, we both do, we smoke weed, we drink tea, we gasp at how Chuck Palahniuk’s head must be so fucked, we fuck, we only fuck. We disappears. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Brain throbs at the speed of sadness. I hear the veins of a leaf getting crushed underfoot. An arch: the most ticklish gap         in my body: Sex, I have come to you for answers again. All that oh god, oh god, oh godding must count for something. So how many men in your books of accounts a male boss quizzes me at my welcome party drinks. Truth divided by the square root of modesty plus standard deviation cool is equal to. It took me years to understand why interest paid is recorded          as asset, interest received a liability

Preeti Vangani is an MFA candidate at University of San Francisco. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Public Pool, Juked, Lines+Stars, and Knicknackery. She’s a spoken word poet and has been performing at many San Francisco events, including Voz Sin Tinta and Kearny Street Workshop.