Dad, Bloom, and The Height of My Hipsterterian Lifestyle
A damaged liver in a mason jar
filled with homemade salsa.
That’s what he gave me,
along with a ziplock bag
of tortillas chips and black lungs.
I’ll call when I don’t understand my car,
when the mower won’t start.
He left me his internet history and told me not
to be intrigued by the vices of the female body,
and I didn’t, I just watched for distraction trying
to piece together a relationship out of kisses
and groping but not feeling any butterflies.
We pass the bottle back and forth and laugh
at life, college, grades, before he passes out
in my bed during his sentence.
He gave me an Ambien to help me sleep
and I snuck two more while he rested halfway
under my covers, his seizures taking him from consciousness.
He tells me
you’re living your life,
and gives me a hug before being helped to the car.
I wish he gave me his tumors instead.
Apathy begins to grow
when dosed with therapy,
a cold apartment and day-drinking.
A healthy balance of all three
can turn your worry of losing your job
to just wanting to beat the cunt
trying to get you fired, when prison
sounds better than average life
and you can kiss all your coworkers and not
care about lying to the girl you’ve been
fucking the last two months.
Apathy begins to grow on the dark
notebook pages lighted by the TV
because you broke your lamp while blacked
-out in a party where you tried to rekindle
a one-sided romance with an old subject
of your poems, where the worst part
of the night was when your molly didn’t kick in.
Apathy begins to grow
when you lose the generational lines
separating you and your parents.
Where your brothers are more of a wet
dream of friendship than as corporeal
as the beer in your hands.
Apathy begins to grow as you take
your medication regularly and you try
to find gold along the muddy crevices of your brain.
The Height of My Hipsterterian Lifestyle
Writing, reading in the only coffee shop close to the hotel,
wanting to get away from the other cheerleaders and band members
as they socialize over exercises or how the basketball players
keep sliding into their DM’s.
So, I took my leave to the nearby isolation of espresso and dim lights,
but found myself caught off guard as I walked
into a perfectly lit minimalistic and modern shop,
full of laptops and high waisted denim.
As girls with nose rings, bangs and tattoos
make my flat white—too fruity for my taste—
before I move to a communal table
to read Sylvia Plath and write in my duct-taped pocket journal
before self-awareness hits me
like being hit by a fixed gear bike while trying to walk downtown.
I fear one of the bearded men dressed in a sweatshirt,
finished off with a wanna-be-train-conductor-hat will call me out,
but my almost dad-like appearance scares them off,
pushing their half-circle frames back up their nose,
readjusting mine as I find my place on the page again.