I spend a lot of time weeping
about all of the megafauna that have died.
My friends don’t understand.
They think this dystopian
robot aesthetic we’re headed towards
is just fine; there’s bound to be collateral
when you’re trying to find a more efficient way to make breakfast sausages.
I feel as though the information age is polluting everyone
with a strange sense of values, like disdain
for reptiles and a belief in the American two party system.
I guess that’s why I’m so interested
in sentiment analysis: it’s a really organized way
to represent all the fucked up little things
our hearts really desire.
It took twenty years but I’ve finally
gotten into the habit of making my own meals.
I’ve been a rabid reader my whole life
so I figured that the only real difference
between my love of magic realism
and kale, was the types of books I was reading.
After that, going to the gym three times a week
didn’t seem so extreme.
That’s all there really is to it.
Suki sees right through this, of course.
Even before I told her
about my lifestyle changes, I could hear her “nyet nyet-ing”
with a dramatic roll of her eyes.
“You rely too much on institutions, my boy Rutherford.”
“Could you go one day without making some
sort of obscene, divine offering of your body
to some non-existant spirit?”
I assure her
I haven’t been to church
since I was 12, that the only temple I
am concerned with is my body.
you were raised Catholic.” she teases.
“According to Max Weber,
you’re not too far away from checking yourself into
a mental institution just to kill yourself.
You have to be careful
about who you accept as friends.
You can’t trust
that the pieces of their life
they reveal on the internet—they might just be
spend their time plotting your demise:
jacking up the price of nachos to $24 a plate,
embarrassing you in business meetings,
dating your ex Michael before suddenly
putting a baby inside of you.
Remember: you are young.
You have the world
at your finger tips and ain’t nobody got time
for those espionage games.
My mom has this awkward
reputation in my hometown. It makes it hard
to look her in the eyes when I go over
for Sunday dinner.
My whole life, the image I had of her and my father
was as tender and loving high school
sweethearts. I built all of my ideas of love
Until I found out
that whenever a couple in town
is having trouble, they call my mom up.
She’s not a surrogate or engaging in some weird cuckold shit.
I don’t know the details and I don’t
really want to, but if you believe
the local gossips, she can literally speak to dicks.
Make them hard.
that make a man virile and full
of thick, syrupy cum.
Some real dark arts kind of stuff.
I’m not sure which part of it I find stranger:
that my mom gets paid to engage in
penile witchcraft, or the fact that
even in her 60s, she still calls it
is in the hospital, on life support.
You probably think that I should be
with her, instead of writing bad conceptual poetry:
it’s Valentine’s Day, after all.
I bet you take me for that one big cloud
on a sunny day, just a massive asshole
without the capability of living like a decent human being.
That I don’t care.
But I do.
She used to tell me that she had an anxiety
surronding her final days.
The tubes. The monitors. The thoughts
She made me promise that I’d never visit her
while she was in that state. She didn’t want me
to get lost in the percentages of whether she would die
holding my hands or recover
and have tea on the stove in a few weeks.
In her mind, there wasn’t anything honorable
to be gained by standing beside the dying.
was a far worse
way to spend your day, than writing bad conceptual poetry.
the Chunk Lover concert, you told me
that you needed to have a little
sex, even just a blow would do.
You promised that you had a
tongue cleaner—lemon flavoured—
back at your place that I could use.
I know you weren’t necessarily trying
to be an asshole, but this was a stark departure
from our previous talks, where we debated
the merits of soft leaded pencils versus
The only way I could react
was to give you that weird look, which I regret
because now I seem like the maladjusted one.
But it wasn’t enough that je t’avait dit non.
Just a little sex, you insisted.
Je t’avait dit non, and that wasn’t enough.
So I had to bring up the fact
that you smelled funky.
And that wasn’t enough.
Just a little sex.
Just a little…
And it wasn’t enough.
Have you seen the Northern Lights, dude?
I swear I was frozen in place for at least six days while it reassembled everything I thought I knew about being a human being.
It made me question why I got so much pleasure focused on trivial things like, outdated notions of discipline and dietary needs.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m humble now, but when I wake up in the morning, I no longer worry about who’s going to love me, leave me, take everything of value that I’ve got—I’m sure they’ve got an app for that these days.
I’ll let the computers worry about that.
That way I can work on more noble pursuits, like fucking with the government and all that good feminist shit.