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{the force is tired of you} micah olin Adults don’t like me. I think it’s why I’m tiny, the ironing kind. Blogging through childhood, these warped composition books like oatmeal in a fax machine, deadstock from Easter Island. I travel the world taking photos of the same stinky rabbit, the long twilight of American rage. I can bleed the brick stuff, but I can bleed ink too, seep through the partisan gridlock of joy & anguish: threats of restraining orders issued by the Sirens alongside monks tricycling on antidepressants for acedia. I call it being emotionally flamboyant. In my fake skate rink bangs, beyond the cortege of Camelot teamsters, an angel with sharp knees spoons me, whispering, “The Force is tired of you & your prefab tower of Babel.” Jammed saints in the crevices of every book with cracked spines - listless, temporary tenancy in Sheol. As we make our move toward total world submission to Love, I patronize the reindeer, the stagecraft of recovery. The crucifix is my cubicle staple, a way to triangulate transparency & authenticity. Spoiled & aimless, sleeping in the glare confers a blessing, conifers. Tiny fans of dusk are famously devoted to the perils of twilight. I’m into swagger, Dash Snow, apple juice & Africa. Precious closet real estate. A wasp-waisted boi in pearl clusters, I give up pride with sartorial ease, secretly I pine to give you a pedicure with my teardrops. Amber hoverboard, whisk me back to 1st century Palestine in the future. Come over & shave down this harried heart. |
