Trump was not inevitable, up until five minutes before
I stopped watching the count. It's shocking to think someone's
saying fuck you about me as much as I do
when I see that bloody Snapchat garland.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Do I fidget too much on the
train, do I sound human when I'm overheard,
just one day, if I could, be a facsimile,
sit in on myself in judgement.
Be tricked, dream dissonance, go see
a nightclub mirror play.
Split in three,
sleep with everyone,
be a reasonable messiah,
sour the grapes.
Sequencing an album,
trying to take someone somewhere,
teasing an arc out of disparate elements
knowing this is becoming a lost art
of careful scooping,
of making a record seem like precise,
controlled distribution of wet stuff
on the belt at the biscuit factory;
always looks better before it comes out the oven,
in its glazed certainty, drippy optimism,
knowing back on the floor,
the pint glass won't come at my head if
a track is out of place,
wondering what it is then,
that drives teens crazy.
Wondering if it's turning over far too fast now;
you're embarrassed by your twenties,
embarrassing in your thirties.
Can I be a fuck you?
Fuck you too?
I am a fuck you?