Wednesday, May 10, 2017

This is my message to the two roads that diverged in a garden of forking paths

This is to you.

As of this writing, to the best of my knowledge, I have somewhere between 30 and 50 children. There is always the chance I was lied to… but that is the only truth I have so far.

If you, in the most general yet specific sense, find this… there is a notebook. My grandmother, Martha Hartman, wrote, with stories from her childhood and youth to pass on to me. I hope you can find a copy, if I’m not around to give one to you.

Maybe that is where this leads. This introduction, into us, into yourself, into this world.

My writing sucks, so it won’t be easy. With any luck and a few more decades of life it might become bearable. But one can only have so many goals at a time.

In my own mind, this blog, this thing, represents a sort of transition, it’s me, from the ages of about 14 to at least this entry at the age of 33.5. But it wasn’t until now that it began to become about you.

You… fuck.

I should warn you, I curse a lot. There will be a lot of fucks. The amount of fucks I give is pretty much always >0 .

God, I hope I get to meet you. I hope you’d think I’m cool. I mean, I’m not. At all. Really, I can barely even stand myself. Actually, if you started at the beginning and made it this far, you know there is probably no one in this world I hate more than me.

But I love you. In all honesty, you are all I’ve been able to think about for some time now.

You are my world.

I’m at a weird place in life, living in Chicago, short on friends, far from family, without a place that feels like home, and with… I don’t know anymore. I don’t know who she is to me, what this is. All I know is at the moment, I’m unhappy. Maybe that’s why I’m writing you. Why I’ve been thinking about you.

The window in life where I can have children I can raise is rapidly closing, and so you represent my lifeline. A realization or dying wish...

It occurred to me last night my greatest regret in life would be if none of you ever contacted me. If I never heard your voice, learned your name, got to touch your face, see your eyes, hold you…

Holy flaming fuckballs, you, this, came out of nowhere. Not literally, I mean. I came in a cup. Someone scienced the shit out of that, and, ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom, here you are.

But I mean this feeling. This desire to know you. To reach out to you. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how much time I have left. A handful of years, money sucks, partners are… well, I don’t know I’d be writing this if I was happy. But that’s for another thought.

I guess that’s all I have; this serves as both a midpoint, a prologue, and, depending on my commute home and how I cope with another day of what feels like a silent sucking endless black well of depression at the moment, a always possible epilogue.

Somehow, in this out-of-nowhere way, I’m not sure anything else has meaning except you. Is this some shade of what having children is like? I feel obsessed by you, with you, with a longing I can and don’t know how to understand, let alone be able to express.

14 years after my first visit to Fertility Center of California, after gaining the moniker donor 29HTS, I thought of you for what feels like the first time. The oldest of you is turning 14 around now. Starting your freshman year of high school. In four more years, you'll be 18, an adult, and if you know of me, able to choose to find me. I'd imagine you'd start with Google.

And now I’m talking to you. So, whether this is the first message you read, the last, or it is just somewhere in the middle…

Hello; my name is Michael Anthony Sherrillo, and if you ever know anything, know that, whether or not I ever know you, I love you, with all my heart. 

Wednesday, April 26, 2017


It’s so easy to write about what makes you scared
or sad
or depressed.

The right words flow so smoothly when expressing
what’s wrong.

And then the imaginative ink
dries up and curdles in its well
when things are going right.

There seem to be infinite ways to show and share sorrow
while joy can only best be savored
in silence.


this thing chased
called happiness
that is enveloped
in octopus skin
always in the
process of becoming
a dance of shifting
color and texture
in the murky depths
hunting the invisible

Monday, April 24, 2017


Is it because
of me
or you
that I feel so unhappy?

I can’t tell anymore
who’s at fault
and I’m afraid it
has gone past
the point that
such things even matter-

no matter how much,
or especially because,
it feels so much like
they do;

I am the common link
in all my failed
and dysfunctional

"The Nauseating Sound of Emotional Vomit," in D minor

The process
of ceasing to believe
does not end with adulthood
but death.

The only pity allowed
is self pity.
And only as long as
you keep it
to yourself.


Whose life am I living?
The shoulders in this town
just don’t fit right
-a little too big for me-
and it doesn’t keep out
the wind and cold
the way I’d like…

It may be a good
deal but I’m not sure
it’s worth buying if
I might never be
in it.


Who is she,
gusty hard blowing
hot and cold blasts
down roads lined with
shoulder-to-shoulder brick buildings…

Rising off the water liked a Bond
bombshell double agent, the highs
and lows of imagination seen in her
sway as she lands on the loud streets
creating and parting the gathering
scattering crowds before her;

The hardness of the city rises
to meet, penetrate, push her away
or pull her down;
but onwards, she crawls and scrapes,
rips and glides her way to the vast
open plains beyond


I wish I didn’t need to write
to feel, to know my own self.
That feeling seen didn’t feel so
revealing, this feeling is revolting
and risking repulsion I internally cower
and cover and close-off myself.

No body wants to be
so seen
while so alone.


At what
point do
you realize
the problem
is you?

Tuesday, April 18, 2017


Old friend.
I think about what you said
about that moment
that you could feel yourself
gripping the rail
staring beyond and below
out and through and past;
your fingers clenching
pulse racing
adrenaline flooding your body
as you knew
in terror and exhilaration
that you would jump

You read those words
and felt yourself possessed by them
and so you jumped-

I’ll never now if
looking back
it was worth it; whether you were freed
by that moment
if you have found what you were looking for
-what any of us are looking for-

sometimes I
feel my palms
sweat, my skin tingle
with cascades of goosebumps
and I think
of you.

Friday, September 09, 2016


The river creates
and carves out
the heart
of the city.

In 1900, after seventy-
seven years of sludge
and shit and sewage
had spilled,
the stream was turned
and for the first time
the silt began
flowing south.

However, in
the deepest bowels
of winter
the churning bottom currents
crawl blindly back along
the riverbed
remembering their ancestral
route, making their migration
against the machinations of man;

Wednesday, August 31, 2016


I walked next to her
through the door and down
the long hallway that led
to the pub her
and I

Next to the entrance was a man in
a suit shuffling a deck of bicycle
playing cards behind an old, worn,
wooden stand with the words “Magic”
inked in what must have once been
bright stylized red lettering long
since faded.

A small crowd, maybe half
a dozen people, were standing in
front of him watching.
She stopped to see upon hearing
their collective small gasp of
incredulity, a sweeping
murmur of disbelief and awe.

He put the cards beneath the stand
and pulled out two glasses. Empty,
they stood there in silence as 
she, I, and the crowd waited.

He picked up one glass and poured
its nothing into the other, which
slowly filled with wine as he did.
He then took the now full glass and
poured its wine back into the empty
first. And again both
glasses were empty.

The crowd clapped as she and I
stood at the back in silence.

She continued to the bar
and sat down. So did I. 
Next to each other like
two glasses.

Monday, August 01, 2016

Here, Yesterday

We are fictions.
You and I dance without knowing the steps
or hearing the music.
We blind mice trapped
In a wheel we free
-ly run. One of
Dreams and despairs, of
Hope and And’s… but each
All are shadows cast.

I am dead, have, been,
Coming. The mask is
The mask is the mask
Is the mask. And death;
Eternal friend, foe, Freudian

I dream of escape.
The endless, deep, eclipsed-
By-the-ocean state of
Unrest provoked by memory
Of the self as an atom,
Rotating, on the eternal
Shifting seas and tides of
Life which, that, have, will,
Metronomically cascade upon
Smash and crash upon
The shore of

I dream of magic because I want to disappear.

How does anyone live?

How do I stop hurting?

How do I hide?

How do I escape, and from what, and into what?

… … …

My first response is to run.



Run. Run. Run. Run.
Chase the circle; be the oroborus.
It is all, and you are but a scale.
Weight weighing weighed.

What do your atoms say?

Umbridge at “you;”
are you the we, the they, the you?

Wouldn’t they rather be free of you,
As you would be free of you?
Who is speaking for who?

Your desires and dreams, your
Wants, you, a waste; mute words on deaf ears.
Hers. Your own. The world’s…

…exercises in entropy.

Does the actor know when they are acting?
What does the character know?

Escape is just a short run-

Jump away.

Every. Time. You.


You will always be alone.
You and your/you’re is not real,
To anyone.
And, frankly,
No one gives a shit.

Atoms. Smashing.

Run and