daring to be 14-year old denim bradshaw,
the boy who got stomped in the chest by a
bull after his first ride and died of cardiac arrest;
super monkey ball main menu music playing
while you construct a tall tower out of legos,
red brick, yellow brick, blue brick, green brick,
as you walk away to go find more building blocks
your brother runs up to you, punches you in the gut,
and then goes over to the tower and knocks it over;
“go get that bottle of Broadbent Vinho Verde, and
be sure to pour it into my special glass, asshole;”
did I tell you that I stole those Kirby playing cards from
an ex-roommate living out in Mayflower, Arkansas?
did I tell you that I stole those running shoes
from the same ex-roommate? did I tell you that
I watched my ex-roommate throw a rock at
a duck and the duck couldn’t fly right? did I
tell you that my ex-roommate liked bob dylan?

it’s 2016 and it’s the weekend of my 21st birthday and mi amigo from mexico city drags me to dupont circle
to hang at the latin bar, but none of the señioritas will dance with me, ay caramba, to cheer me up we go
to a gay bar for free drinks, the city homos fill me up with so much god damn whiskey that I have to run and
projectile into the urinal, my roommate pats my back while scrolling on his phone and tells me, “holy shit,
Trump just won Florida,” we run out on our tab and start walking towards the metro when we see the Founding
Church of Scientology building, we go to the front of the building and jump over a tiny black fence and make
dents in the dewy lawn and pretend that we’re having a religious moment, but in reality we’re just trespassing
and getting grass stains on our work clothes;

chicken sheriff wears a green denim button-up under a leather vest, a red face-scarf hangs around his neck, his
colt frontier six-shooter is tucked into his belted holster, the stern cock scans the area, squinting under the
harsh texas sun, “bock bock, bock bock,” the hour for mayhem is immanent, a matter of when; the bird pecks the
ground and stirs up some dirt, the town needs rain, the town needs enlightenment, “bock bock,” the town needs
hope, the town needs careful oversee, but no matter what, the town needs law that upholds an ethics of nostalgia,
the protection of literature, and death to anyone who tries to pervert the former or oppose the latter;

self-flushing toilets and freshly tightened spliffs; it’s coming, it’s coming, a paranoia of open eyes, it’s
creeping in through the crack in your window, look at the vine twirling through broken shards, the world wants
you; there’s a guy dressed up as michael jackson at karaoke and he only talks like michael jackson and sings
michael jackson songs and he keeps looking at me and I don’t know what it means; “referring to the former/the
latter,” kill yourself; sleepover with friends watching the jackass guys put a leech onto steve-o’s eye; and
so, there was a change, there was this uncontrollable urge, a new-found fascination with flicking fire onto a
glass jar and watching the rodent inside sink his teeth into a squishy belly button;

my therapist calls me for our afternoon telephone counseling session, but when I pick up the phone I answer with:
“hello, thank you for calling burger king, home of the whopper, how can I help you?”