Thank you to Former People for publishing these pieces.
by Jeremy Nathan Marks
I am forty and have never found any woman who would have me.
I once puzzled over how, despite my smarts, I wouldn’t be caught dead pushing paper in a firm or racking my brains to make a diagnosis. The thought of attending conferences dedicated to specialized knowledge makes me nauseous. Instead, I read things I find like wrappers and make collages out of trash. I tell fortunes from the grounds of edible plants. It’s called writing.
At night on my cot, I envision porcelain cups, sugar dispensers, and how many glasses of water a man can order without actually ordering anything. I dream in canvases of yellow mustard, relish green, and Heinz red. In my sketchbook, I have a man sleeping on a bed of sugar packets with white paper napkins for his blankets. Of such kingdoms do I dream.
There is only…
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