I blame my parents, I guess.
That misguided 80s optimism:
Reaganomics and faux wood paneling.
VHS. The nightly news. Family portraits
straight out of Sears & Roebuck. Fucking
polyester blends. Just work your way up I guess
I blame America. Practicing intruder drills at nine
really has a way of beating it out of you. We hide
in the maintenance closet with the broom and dustpan.
Here’s a diagram of the safest spot in the room:
only one of us’ll make it out alive. I recite what I think
my cinematic last words will be: Mom,
I love you before a theoretical bullet
can rip my childhood wide open. I guess
I blame the internet. There’s discourse
all over Twitter. Can’t stand it. All I have
are my words. I once posted a poem
to Yahoo Answers—yeah
Yahoo Answers. It was like 2006.
I had just discovered Plath. I said:
What should I title my poem?
because I just couldn’t help myself.
stupid poem by katie somebody said. Which is like.
Fair. I bet it’s still out there somewhere. The internet’s
forever they say. Teenage poetics carved in stone.
It actually hurt my feelings though. How embarrassing.
I should be more embarrassing. I’m writing
on a theme, you see? I hate numbers.
I’m obsessed with them. Have you noticed? I can’t stop talking
myself in circles. They say poetry’s written
for other poets but I think that’s bullshit.
Poetry’s for the people, man.
I write poems on the clock. I write them
on my phone sometimes. Read Rimbaud like
my life depends on it. Which I guess
it kind of does. I’m still waiting
for those taxes to trickle down. Still waiting
for my dream to be delivered. Still waiting
for the man. Street corner, thumb out.
Send me a line. I’ll take anything.