All my doodles become
monsters. I press
too hard when I write, meaning
snapped leads and jagged rips
through lined
paper. The beings with triangle
teeth want to know what I’m
doing to their
home. A teacher told me to
tap
my index finger on my pencil to loosen
my grip. I forget
the trick most days, until I can’t
open my right hand
after I write exams or scrawl a
world. These wounds were made
with claws. At some point I shifted from
printing to looping to ragged
zigzag spikes
so each of my words looks like a signature
or an alien landscape. A place where no one
would dare
call my doodles abnormal,
though the thrillers suggest certain
grey investigators in tired suits can profile
serial killers from
their handwriting. Everyone hears that
and makes one of two jokes. Oh no, you
got me, or good thing
I only text. Psychoanalysis
of the ordered and chaotic. How does anyone
link all the times I sign my name when
none of them are the same and some of them
have faces? No one can forge
eyes. We live in angular
times, where detectives light another
cigarette and shake their heads, then
flip the note over and feel for
stories hidden in dents. To be misshapen,
there must be a correct form. Sigh out
smoke. They don’t know anymore. Most of
of lines don’t lead to monsters, just
clenched hands and hearts. Take out
a dull pencil and start to doodle
something unknown. There are things
worth fighting, many worth
finding, but monstrosity
is rare. I always make mine out of
whatever I can’t read on
my first try.
Angular Times, Cale Plett. Image provided by Alen Banman IG: @artbyeal
Cale Plett (he/they) is a nonbinary writer who lives in Winnipeg, where they are watching and listening for stories. Some they remember, some they forget, and some they turn into poetry, prose, and lyrics. Cale’s poetry and fiction are published and/or forthcoming in Grain, CV2, The Anti-Languorous Project, and Riddle Fence.
IG: @calesmoothie