A thousand graffiti penises
Addicted me to phallic shapes.
Even lost in the woods, I can find
Perfectly circumcised mushroom tips.
The “average” American curses 80-90
Times per day, but my niece will call me
Out on saying words like “idiot” and “dumb”
While driving because those words, too,
Are impolite, just like hen o’ the woods
Crawling up the Western side.
Hot girl shit (I mean “stuff”, Arlo) sounds exhausting,
Useful but unethical, glorious in the right
To feel right at home in your body,
To incorporate trans dinosaurs
Into the very fabric of your clothing.
I’ve been trying to decide if today is worth
Exploring, tossing aside iPad ideologies
To learn a door blows open in your mind
Anytime you take the train to Phoenix.
Miracle balm is truly a miracle,
Removing all the lines of traffic
Running from the corners of my eyes.
I avoid mixing my metaphors,
Leaning into the history of rock, walking
On thin ice in the desert where Arlo’s
Grandparents live, my parents.
Surrounded by cacti that can survive the heat
You realize how tiny you and your problems are
And that a glass of water is really all you need.
An Italian soprano, not the mobster kind,
But the singing, introduces this new, amazing child
To juggling, to AI tailored to her individual needs.
Eventually, my job will just be teaching students
To write better prompts, not to compose their own ideas,
But rather embrace our robot overlords,
The corporations that will own our souls.
I’ve always been so afraid of losing people,
But I think they’ve already been lost in this mad parade.
Kaitlyn Bolyard 