Ben Purkert


Draw a face, you start with two dots. Hi, you're now being viewed. Q: how many floors does your body have? A: I fall hard for the perimeter of a girl. Drag your mouse over the profile pic to imply depth. Like a catfish, deflect the age question with a swift turn. Bury the ex in long sentences. Type you want more little ones than you'd like. Next, sprinkle that same white lie over coffee. Lock arms around an iceberg wedge w/ bleu cheese. Hoist a straw man to force the two of you states apart, then poke holes in his ribbing. Buff your nails as search history fades from binary. As old flames blend into scrub forests. With no face, any ghost may waltz into the Hall of Fame.




Knit a hardcover title to your chest: you'll spin faster. Run your twin through the dishwasher & gush how time's flown. Now fire a potato gun at that twin, to zero in on some point of difference. So you scar where the barrel recoils, who's counting? Whisk oil & tap water to shine a light on border wars. March a balloon giraffe up your sleeve until it clings to even footing. That Coke label—peel it—as you brace for a u-turn in climate. If the eye wall feathers. If a robin egg crushes, its energy's conserved. In a jewelry box elsewhere? An almost-egg? Sound it out: electrons dancing around the subject.







on ONLINE MATCH: I was gchatting with my girlfriend and had meant to enter a smiley face (this is mildly embarrassing) but accidentally omitted the close parenthesis. This left only the ":" which I saw, for the first time, as a disembodied pair of eyes. Horrifying! It got me thinking about how online communication breeds unique forms of estrangement, rendering the familiar suddenly unrecognizable.

on HOME PHYSICS: I'd recently read Brian Greene's The Fabric of the Cosmos and was losing sleep thinking about the twin paradox, entropy and the arrow of time. (All of which I understand rather dimly.)