I have more scraps now than poems—
more hopes & fears abandoned than dreams realized.
What dreams, if any, have I realized?
How many dreams have I ever conceived?
Ages 6–22 I wanted to play soccer
and did, but no one paid me so I took up poetry.
I’ve never known what I wanted
so maybe I’m still a boy
which is how most millennials feel—
about me, personally, & other men my age.
Basquiat started a revolution to warn us
about the dangers of the same old shit,
but I keep investing in the future
like Republicans won't privatize climate restoration
to profit off land deserted. Desert-ed.
I continue to feel small & useless
probably because I keep reading the news & election results.
The west-facing walls of my house have no windows
so by 1pm every day I’m ready to hold the night like a lover
who keeps her underwear on in bed.
A surplus of local coffee shops exacerbates my anxiety.
I drink seltzer with lime.
I’m hydrated as fuck.
I worry the lives I abandoned are thriving
in another universe, and ashamed of me.
I don’t reach through the folds of timespace for them
because I know some branches of my life are rotten,
and I won’t risk slipping into nothing.

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