paperless statements

Today I woke, and all was clear.
I hitched my pants and went outside.
The lamppost had its head held high
as did the fence and all the plants;
I looked up at the morning sun,
and it, too, it was having fun
dancing yellow light through clouds.
So in I went to my old desk 
with normal life front and foremost,
with the quotidian most impressed.
I sat there and tried to write a song
to my beloved wife. I could not,
because she was too especial
as they say in Spanish—tan elegante. 
She was such that words about her
would not stay put in normal lines. 
I could see the verbs and nouns 
stretching out and squeezing through
the edges of the song I wrote.
Felt almost like forbidden love.
Tomorrow I will write a song 
about the house, the sky and trees,
make mention of the grass and bees,
then sit on the bench, have a pipe,
grouse about life to passers-by.
For that is how it’s supposed to be.
Not mucho, mucho complicadísimo.

Can’t remember what the child wasn’t named
by the people she hadn’t known—it began with Q.

Jazz followed everywhere she dragged
her blanket, the way butterflies and bees

flutter up in clouds around angels’ footsteps
or mermaids’ tails slap surf into iridescence,

but they were structured. As in “Monk’s Dream”
the plaid musics alternated logorithmically,

chord after chord finding its own square root,
a sort of sorcerer’s apprentice in reverse, brooms

and buckets joining into greater singularities
until the old man hadn’t left. So this girl,

whose people weren’t her family, quietly
quit her Quetiapine, waited weeks, waited

and exited her own twin bed without leaving it
left without going, went without arriving,

finally became a point in space around which
untellable sorrow bloomed as pure beauty,

versions of it proliferating fractally, musically
across total darkness that feels like galaxies.

We worry that you think
that when you leave
you will be missed.

Nothing that you have done
here can’t be done
by someone else

and less annoyingly—
fewer errors
maybe even.

What’s wrong with you is what
is wrong with all
of us, Steven

Pinker argues in his 
Blank Slate. He writes
that to live is

to relearn everything
we can’t undo
before we’re born,

and that adds up to why
we cannot wait
till you are gorn.

Sorry I even spoke—
would that it were
somebody else.

Am I the only honest
clerk left at the
St. Louis Belk?

❖

I want a droid that gives me space.

I want a droid that keeps to itself.

Not some servo-bot always at my heel.

Not a servo-bot clinking among the plates.

I want a droid that sings elegies.

I want a droid to stop in its track.

Not some servo-bot intent on making love.

Not the servo-bot from TV.

I want a droid that naps it off. 

Ascends to the moon but in its mind.

Not a servo-bot that zigs when I zag.

I guess I’m not much of a servo-bot guy.

I want a droid that says Made in France.

I crave the droid of pure elegance.

What I don’t want is an anxious servo-bot.

Not that typical poorhouse servo-bot.

I’d like a simple droid, silver and unplugged.

I want a droid that says one cool thing.

One cool word to silence the servo-bots—

a razor slipped along the necks of the bots.

A droid that, when it acts, acts with intent

and cools its jet the rest of the time.

What is your share of ports?

I control one third of all on this shore.

And what is your pair of shorts?

Men’s Cargo, Old Navy—the navy of yore.

Collab with @retsoor

All riots reserved.

I raised an anthurium
for more than
a year—neutral,
stately, required

almost no care,
so now i have anthuria
in pots everywhere.
Some prefer

say, the fragrant
begonia, but they
are showy
and short-lived.

And for me
not one begonium
has produced
a pleasing aromum.

How’s it going, dad?

It’s killer sick right now. Just vibing, breh.

How’s your job?

Mad productive. Boss is phat, no cap. Team is relatively bomb-ass.

Good to hear. And how’s mom?

Making mad progress on her master’s, thanks for asking. Imo she’s high key dank. She slaps, periodt.

Great. Appreciate the updates.

Bet. Preesh takin time to connect. K, finna get back to work. Lates, fam!

Later, dad.

Someone on my bus just shouted
I OFFERED YOU A FRIENDLY DONUT HOLE
and it has lowkey suburban war vibes

I muttered breh what u even smoking
they must’ve heard bc they clapped back
Uh yeah take SEVERAL seats my human

sitting approximately mid-vehicle
I must’ve whispered sheesh
because this breh called me out again

and now I’m like TFW u go from boojy
to cheugy in approximately 1 seconds
and can’t unsee that bc it lives rent free

I’m not the e-boy I thought I would be
at this point of high school PERIODT
I’m the main character in somebody else’s

“JK.”
-Rowling