it

ME AND MY FRIENDS HAVE SARCASTIC BEARDS

I don’t trust kids my age who don’t have Friends In the War,
are into war, render war, END DA WAR! Excuse me, you look
real-ish: did we go to Sarah Lawrence and protest something?
You make me feel like a logger on a spaceship. Like I wash my
hair too much. Like my eyes should grow to accommodate these
white sunglasses. Raybands? I make up weekday drinking names
outside The Basement with a girl who schools me on Brian Wilson.
O if we could sack fossil fuels for your discography trivia.
It’s not like I want something “holy” or I find the prim and
lonely Visigoths. It’s just a meth versus coke kind of thing.
A mail order Neutral Milk Hotel shirt versus a concert stain.
You make me feel like if I gave you a tree frog, it would die
on Monday but receive abundant mention in your MySpace survey.
You make me feel like using the stove to light a cigarette is a
photo op. Wait, you have a bank account set aside for laser
tattoo removal, but maybe I forgot to click Remember Me.
“No, I was in Berlin reading Nietzsche and accelerating the
boob to aporia ratio.” “As of late, I have been totally loving
Tropicana—wait—trip to Kenya?—no, no, tropicália. Tom Ze.”
It’s not like I want something “hash brown” or I don’t find
Beautiful Losers recitation skillz essential. Excuse me.
Not when there is white denim to revive, not when bottle
necks still make for good slide guitar, not when you blinged out
the dead tree frog, not when you bought a free trade
plunger, not when we sang all night in a Sarah Lawrence loft
until Eoin pissed on your cell phone charger and solved
racism, bisexuality, and how to court a zesty violent twee.
Remember when I got all up in your shit and you fed my
email address to those porn websites? I feel like a boy
made of old man socks and very clever text messages.
Joe Cook’s knuckles exploded in the desert. God you luv and
fuck your world. Just kidding about God. Who is Joe Cook?
Did he go to Sarah Lawrence and protest something?
Remember when you told me I should fuck that girl,
then you wrote “make love” in your poem? So did I. Amen.

originally appeared in OCHO #19