Michael Chang

Poem in Which the Poet Reads the Fortunes of Randos

it’s october 3rd / i am really tired & your face is greasy / your poems are just long-
winded descriptions of what ppl look like / you wish to return as a male model’s
favorite cat / writing is difficult & stressful but if you do it successfully, you can still
be poor! / poets rank slightly below raccoons / i am immigrant i self-publish
lichen / you like large boys a queer person / you should write a memoir you have
seen some shit / the one you have been seeing is a narc / my legal dream team is
jessica rabbit & the cast of modern family / i want our teef to clash yes / peace love
boba you are powerless / you are a spinster of 30 / your face is small & thin like a
mink’s / you think clint eastwood is dead / you would make the beast with two
backs for tye sheridan / you live on stolen land / you pretend to like times new
roman but your preferred font is garamond / you will be in a horrific accident &
will only remember britney lyrics when you wake / you enjoy the golden radiance,
the narrow & sculptural flanks of youth / the reports of your attractiveness have
been greatly exaggerated / the savageness of your wit has been falsely reported /
you will meet the one at new york’s hottest club / you sharted at your own birthday
party & the smell still lingers / you will fart on a wolf cub & become king / an
incident at a wawa once left you scratched & bleeding / you have bedbugs you shall
henceforth be known as bedbug girl / you have a sense of inevitability abt dinner /
do not trust the “no. <3” crew.  they are narcs / there is a special internet for cute
ppl & hopefully i will see you there but if not that is fine / you like watching the
warmth radiate off him like a spotlight / he will remain unfucked by you / all my
endings slap like meat on a counter / back off my bf !!!!

Shelf Stable
“For as the body is one and has many members, but all the members of that one body, being many,
are one body, so also is Christ”—1 Corinthians 12:12

“We love disasters that have nothing to do with us”—Mark Doty

*

I have given up on deep-core drillers—
a restaurant I’ll never order from again.

As we enter this period of morning business,
how many poems have already been written abt Harvard’s glass flowers?

I suppose, like those flowers,
I know absurdity, thrive on abandonment.

I grow, turn into a shack twisting on its very foundations,
rouse in response to your questioning.

Boy with the rifle—
I’ll always be the bored child, you’ll always be my escape.

Buckle up buttercup—
sex is good, but have you ever fucked the system?