October 2025

my Dream for the Future

how often I stop work to watch digital twilight pass across my 

live solar gradient laptop background

 will no longer be measured in time between unsilenced android ringtones but

  by my goody toe shoes, and my green juice separation, and my stick n poke tattoo.

I love to read in the greenhouse every day. We

outlawed gender scarcity on new years eve twenty thirty three. The sidewalk thought I was a phone and tried dialing tomorrow on my kneecaps- When I stood up, the glitter left octagonal impressions in my skin, and they looked like buckminsterfullerene, carbon cathedrals buckling the light. The computers, finally bored with wages and weather, trade folktales of molecules and unspool our chores like old tape— click,

done.

there are books that dream in the fourth person and librarians that archive checkout slips like the recovered passports of long-dead celebrities.

there are musicals written by my four year old god-daughter in a cyber-feminist-korean-italian dialect which has never been conceived before. 

there are pens that translate love letters into every language, and curling irons that text us when they;re off so we never have to go check. 

and we have grandchildren with colorful hair who know themselves & each other well, 

and we’ll all be the people on the back of the best book i’ve ever read

Taste my fresh veggies,

and ill cite us after everything i say

Everything Wrong with Me Before Twenty-Six
 

The church steeple waves to me, ringing out like a laugh unstifled.    a little plastic skeleton jiggles its bones like wind-chimes, vertibray stack and morning claws its way up the elevator shaft.

I peel the skin off my sternum in the everything shower— it feels like the water is borrowing my soul to check its temperature like a candy thermometer.
I push my scream into its fist and it softens, suds. 

Somewhere, you read the paragraph that makes you text me back, and it rhymes with the couplet that makes me call my mother next month.
I mouth her name like a password, and the mirror fogs in agreement.

Meanwhile, you— summer’s faithful manservant— show up in a matching yellow loincloth, always early, grinning like damn free samples.

listening to Mahler’s First, on hold with the school insurance people,

You think restraint is a winter myth.

                                   I explode, then evaporate. 

you do an awesome trick with the vapor.

 I used to hate that—
your supermarket brightness, cigarette white, the easy boyish charm,
The way you could hug us both at once.
Now I compost it. Ask me about my goth compost dungeon. Ask me about my homunculous. 

the skeleton is still dancing,

It wrote me a ransom note on burnout velvet.

I really need to cure everything that’s wrong with me
before I turn twenty-six, I think— 

Then I forget what wrong meant and watch the sun trade places
with its reflection, vanity incarnate.

There’s a pair of your underwear on my altar. Knelt before it, I press palms into eyeballs untill the shapes fade away. Later when golden hour writes sheet music on my curtains, and tired shoes squeak their same one liners, the front gate’s latch still chuckling like yesterday. Green juice seperatez, throatz clear, pantz drop.  I cultivated this like a lily– precise, petulant, pure. its chlorophyll speaks in ones and heart emojis, and on the pages of a book I haven’t written yet it throws itself into cyanotype relief. You read it like smut and your patient petals purr.

The pages turn on their own now, slowly, like blinds in a friendly apartment, like, oh, yeah, we’re kissing now,
letting in dusk without having to be asked <3.