by Anonymous

1
God’s name is Google and I ask them if it is
normal to feel like a sinking buoy, too heavy to
tread water, too light to sink like a bullet into
flesh: and it’s been lifetimes since I’ve felt the
thrill of slam poetry and snaps and the ecstasy
of calling men out on their bullshit. If sensory
deprivation tanks were among the FBI’s verified
methods of torture, that would be this hellyear.
Time is a desert in an hourglass with no oasis,
no respite for the cacophony of self call-outs.
I am alone in the bathroom at 11:39 in the dark
and I am thinking about walking to the knife
and playing stab between the fingers because
I am this family’s vestigial organ. But no,

2
it’s these peeling white walls who have made me
prisoner. Wake up. The world is burning, the pan
is charred black as the india ink you spilled when
you tried to imitate Lunch Money in second grade;
remember how happy you were? Remember how
happiness works? It’s a reverse spin cycle. You
gotta take the heat before the swim. You are
my favorite poet. Is that vain to say, or am I
exercising an unalienable right? Remember how
you gave Owen a resting bitch face when he came
out? How now you’re the one on the receiving
line, and all you want to do is let the phone hang?
You are a desert nomad in an oasis standoff with
a bandit and the bandit is you. Wave and say hello.