Today, I’m at the freehand on Ohio (19 E), feeling fortunate that I can leave
then to
somewhere to sleep the same night
then to
my need to rush the gauntlet where people (are meant to) battle to meet (but ultimately fall short of) my lofty expectations
then to:
negative ruminations behind
and a mind to be sure when this happens next time…
I’ll end the war in a loft
some place more than just “somewhere to sleep the same night”
What do I have a spare tire for? I don’t even know how to drive.
I told my friend I didn’t have friends and he agreed. I wanted to meet new people, but then I couldn’t find any good reason I’d leave my place to meet people.
Chew on your foot
Sleep on your pillow
Walk with your step
Paws on your chin
So you’ll drop your attention down to me
You have me now
When at one time
Watashi wa inu o mochimasen deshita
Now I am supposed to grip your hand back
Otherwise you’ll try checking my pulse
Be alive. Stay present.
I was supposed to lean against you
but splashed Slurpee in your frozen lap and now you’re bluish
How long was I squeezing your hand?
Like a doula, you let me realize when the nerves were gone
And simply didn’t call me again.
resistance is futile.
thinking of us daily
prepared you for me
since before you’d heard
of resistance.
and still
you have wanted it.
Fall is a lanky hipster.
A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.
A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.
An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.
An original. Cared for and with pride.
Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes
Grateful for the social distance.
I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles.
I am the sideways push to get out from your path.
I am you, stained grey-air ash.
I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate.
Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.
Key click and key click
And decline with surety this and the next also
“Could these pieces be any more hollow?”
“These aren’t writers. These are twenty-something-aged children”
So the poems and the flash fiction and the creative nonfiction are sophomoric
So I begin hating my job as an editor
This publication is small so
Perhaps this explains the mediocre writing
Perhaps this is the “At least I tried” publication
Although, each of these ‘writers’ have given a more honest try than I have lately.
At least they cared to write something.
Will I?
