Keep Yr Cool
In New York, hotels are only for parties. Everyone knows what to order and how fast to drink. Stand still as glass in shadows—it’s easy to overheat. Being “had” suggests essential loss. I wish identity could be just halves, but it’s more like a mondrian. Lower East Side friday night. Artisinal olive oil vodka art after party—thin, matte hotties and autumn’s barely turning the city....
Grindr Dot Com
Pixels double click — there’s a thumb between your forehead and umbilical pallet. Plasma is synonymous with blood, but we don’t call fangs a plug. I’m searching for ways not to eat electricity. Carbon butt print. What if I told you the city was a monocle? Park Place hoofs like a headstone. There’s one big blanket across my sternum, watching a viewscreen charge cole in the midwest....
Cowboys and Indians
I decided light is a house. Saturday Night Live was doing that sketch where everyone breaks. It’s a marvel anything gets done in a week when nothing ever happens in a day. I was going to say “TV” but the phone rang, and I thought— does a xylophone really count as an instrument? A mobile is meant to encourage babies to imagine the future and articulate possible obstacles. There are...
The Shade, the Shade of it All
Be careful not to root and develop bark— all that feeling locked in a rubber precursor. “Meaningless” just means meaning differentiates. Repetition: affirming or dissociative? Develop the certainty of a hand fan— conduct air with the potential of storage. The satisfying snap, —oh snap— becomes reflex. The hand is quicker. So much is said anticipating “haters” and then...
Perfect Denim Jacket
“love” can mean faux fur trim or the way old cotton wears thin on broad shoulders. Think of a biker’s rolled up mentality. Just who is meant for speed? I have a crush on a thrift store clerk whose curly hair bowls when he lols. I don’t know what that means, “perfect denim jacket,” just what I’d feel if I had it.
A Solace of Big Mac
On the ride home from school we drive-thru Jack-in-the-Box. Gridlock is, how do I explain this, skin strippingly boring for a kid who has stopped singing. Ketchup must have been a Eureka! moment, like the discovery of vaccines. You can keep your weather, California. I’ll take a crowded subway everyday. I miss the mountains stretching like chubby babies, but not enough. To their credit,...
Poem for 420
I make sure to netti pot before “consulting the oracle” as I call it. The truth is chanting but not to be abused—medicine remains a remedy. I’m pretty vain, but who wants to eat waffles in front of a mirror? Some people can chew steel and come to work the next morning. I lift my teeth to Peggy Bundy, smoking turkey dinner, though TV isn’t a sitcom anymore and leaving a family is why I...
When Are You Leaving?
Pundits and politicians quiver over immigration. Humans often followed birds and herds, and in Hawaii they planted taro to stay alive. Gladys Knight stresses cognitive behavioral therapy. What does Berry Gordy think of Motor City? It’s as clear to me as sleeping under the trees and being herded across granite mountains where not even a goat could live because San Diego wanted our water. My...
Fuck OK Cupid
Apparently OK Cupid “uses math to get you [ass].” Kelly Clarkson has this song called “Einstein” with the chorus, “dumb plus dumb equals you.” I have trouble “driving it home” on dates. Let’s call it 1664 and shirking. A good friend of mine works in proofs, draws them on long, white boards and tried to explain how algorithms change the orientation of smart phone screens when you horizontal. I...
People Don't Usually Vomit On Me After We've Made...
Holy shit, the birthday boy just puked! JMZ line grinds its wheel teeth behind you. Self-hatred is a disease not cured by living in the path of juggernauts. Margarita, shrimp chips, possible rock bottom— the chunks pucker down his glued on Fu Manchu. In the 80’s, women on TV shouted “Take me, take me now!” but when you wait like a dolly for night moves, someone plays with you. A reddening...
This Poem is Called The Internet
This poem is written in the form of a Craigslist missed connection. You wore snake skin and drank from a vase. Excuse me, chalice. Sylvia Plath gets invoked a lot. So does Joan from Mad Men. It is strange to watch someone on TV and cry “Me too!” in a room of mirrors. Excuse me, echoes. Excuse me, iPhones.
I’ve been hard at work putting together the latest birdsong zine, and it’s tooootally done and ready for public consumption. Once again there’s no release party for this issue (sad face), but you can pick up a copy at the Brooklyn Zine Fest this Sunday, April 15th (we’re tabling! come say hi), or we’ll totally send you a FREE one if you email us yr address by the...