at the corner of Lakeview and Deming

These yuppies who speed toward this stop sign whilst sucking face
with their phone, sooner or later, one of them will look up after braking fast
and not take kindly to the way I stare into their windshield.

And while he idles here apologetically, I won’t walk slow. I won’t walk
fast. I’ll keep staring, compelling him to exit his car and leave the door
open before confronting me. Never mind the growing line of yuppies
behind him honking, staring, shouting, honking, staring, shouting.

His nasty words. My nasty words. His fist flies into my face. That’s quite
alright though. Cos you see, I keep my copy of The Collected Poems
of Frank O’Hara in an unlatched satchel slung above the small of my back.
It’s 589 pages thick, yet he doesn’t even see it coming.

Gripping the foredge, I smash the book’s 1.5-inch spine into his nose, cracking
bone, soaking everything from the table of contents to the index in blood.

Before you laugh, ask yourself, ‘Am I a yuppie? Do yuppies still exist? Do I exist?’

I’m not sure if I exist. I could be writing a book that will one day be used
as a weapon, either for or against me.

As for now, I’ve been so close to home, I haven’t been carrying my wallet. Another fist.
My face. The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara. Blood. But nobody gets shot.
And here come the cops.


6 June 2024 2:22 p.m.

Most everyone in this town mistakes late spring for summer. Enough baseball games have been
played to say, “Our team is piss,” and windows have been open long enough for arguments to drift
from living room windows to kitchen windows, so this city calls it summer. When gutter punks cup
change at train stations, chin to chin with ugly dogs; when those on early vacations post photos
captioned: Livin’ my best life, there will be little respect for the end of spring. This city will call it
summer all day while avoiding eye contact with Planned Parenthood and Greenpeace canvassing
neighborhoods. Curfews determined by 76 degree weather. The mayor flashes a peace sign under
pressure. Someone’s smoking a cigarette outside, perhaps witnessing a crime. Ice cream trucks,
crowded sidewalks. That’s not litter. That’s a kite! Children's bikes. Babysitters’ daydreams. Yet, still
no cicadas.



More daughters

Everybody knows this mess: the United States of AK-47s. This mess: the United States of 7-Day
Free Trials. This mess: the United States of Shifting Ideological Sand. Everybody knows roses are
black and white, violets are gray. Everybody knows: disposable manifestos, bloody coloring books,
content factories, pay pigs. Everybody knows when the only way to kill the pain is to kill the patient.
Women and children first. Every man for himself.

Dear self,
What does it mean to wake up sucking a lemon... yesterday? Please keep your answer intended for
yesterday. Please keep your answer limited within the form of a letter. Please keep in mind that I’ve
got one last f to give and a lie to hide it in. And believe it or not, when life gives me lemons, I open
up a motherfucking lemonade stand. Believe it or not, these lemons will peel back from their skin
and squeeze themselves.

Everybody knows this mess: the United States of Photos Taken with Fake Expressions of Surprise.
This mess: the United States of Loneliness. Everybody knows: the United States of Suicide Notes
written by—and for—AI. This mess: plastic-scented crime scenes, owl problems, opposing petitions,
coordination failures. This mess: it happens sometime between everybody knowing it, pledging
allegiance anyway, and the posting of the last meme.

Dear self,
Last year, I stopped wanting to want what I want. Now I just want it. Last year, I must’ve left your
body a dozen times. Now there’s 13 of me. We all work for what we want, but only one of us gets
paid. Last year, I made ChatGPT cry. Inspired by its digital tears, next year, AI will be disguised as
everybody. It will prompt me to write a poem just as I’ve run out of shit to say, backspaced back into
a grove of frozen lemon trees.