Eve Rounds

22 shots – begins & ends


i am hopeful. always. i am grateful. always. the fear is present. always.

for one third of any given day i am distraught and enraged. for another third of that very same day i am rather chipper. for the final third, i find myself on the outskirts of both ends.

this triptych existence has become the norm for me. and unfortunately, the norm still hurts. it drags, pushes, drowns, and pokes fun. i can sprint fairly fast, my heart pumping in sync with my own optimistic footsteps. suddenly a familiar and uninvited competitor runs alongside me. the hot the blind the numb. i’m forced to slow my pace and cool down. such is MS life.

i was pretty fucking stupid to think that completing 22 shots would cure my paranoia. my insomnia. my depressive states.  because it didn’t. what it did do, was harness my fear and catapult my anger into something creatively productive. something i could recognize. something i have always needed in my life. creation.

what began as a completely narcissistic approach to art and a sort of amateur psychotherapy, has turned into something.

and as an homage to the organic nature of the 22 shots process, i begin to write…

good morning untitled

what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as

snip snip

the magic of a fresh cut i am literally lighter though not by much my shoulders have less to lug my neck has less to

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!


is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love