i never told anyone that i’m really ann-margret. i can bye bye birdie, i can dig into my skirt, it is difficult for me to love.

how to live in a forgotten zone of the republic // is that near chicago? // someone in central blows up on social media, reveals southern illinois to the rest of the country and the country loves it // the pornography of poverty the new three piece set by honey birdette // where shootists refuse the perils of chicago // my aunt’s windows are shot out by her brother over a drug dispute // someone in springfield says south illinois is basically kentucky. basically kentucky is basically where i’d rather spend time // paducah is our wonka factory it keeps us humble and stupid // to live honestly one must round out their character by submersing it inside a biblical hatred that frots harder than it froths // if you are forgotten you were never missing // HAVE YOU SEEN THIS // orange jumpsuits full of wind on the front page // the sun flirts peculiar out here // how to live inside the sun // oh my darling oh my darling oh my darling chicago sun times

i never told anyone about the cherry plum tree in my front yard growing up the fruit dropped broke open easily on the sidewalk and stooped the short walk to the driveway into violet and dark red deeds i would later recognize these colors and shapes imprinted on my mother’s pre-divorce legs violence as a language confuses caterpillar ethics but its calligraphy was second nature and i often wedged myself in the inconsequential fork of the plum tree to gain a better perspective on bruising to interject myself in the ebb and flow of that which will always break

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