what it's like to die
bacchus-d, spearmint grandmas, and dust so hard it cuts your eyes
I can’t see I can barely hear
but I am here
I am here
waiting for my cue
from taylor swift’s
“tortured poets department”
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even though
all of it
in the rhythmic breathing showoffy undertone
sounds like her first hit
like me
like me
when I thought I was better
than my class of ‘82
in the end, I’m watching my life play out,
played out
just one more k-drama, please,
thank you, and I’m sorry
I drove you away
to be anyone next door
in everytown kentucky
god reserves the best sunset
for the poor
riding subways to and from
the prison playbook
for they are made of dust and grime and romance, not
the filaments of nature
I’ve been running from this dirt-poor paper-door town
since my dad fell hard for my mom in a blackmarket shop around the corner
selling love with sesame candy and the hard stuff
korea is a tiny room
as it’s swept up, a shutter
about to be pressed
between the pages of an asthmatic child’s journal
borrowed from the babysitter upstairs
neither clean,
nor safe,
but oh-so comforting,
now that I’m pushing
my borrowed grandmother’s age
wandering around myself
in this dusty new town by an evel-jump canyon,
once upon a time, once a child
of a hundred rapes, longing for big, open spaces
the scent of lilac and honeysuckle on a starry summer night
dying to go into the light
where my friends are waiting
with beer and soju
instead of here
listening to clinking glass sounds of chewing on an empty stomach
reminding me of endless need
why am I with you
where is the setting sun