Last night,
I drove through Detroit
and listened to Folklore.
By that I mean,
I drove up and down
Woodward Avenue.
By that I mean –
I drove to Birmingham
and back,
but if you’ve never been
to Detroit metro,
then you don’t know
that’s the rich suburbs.

I saw a cop
and got paranoid,
because even though
I’m white
and drive a Buick,
I’m not sure
how to act anymore.

I can’t articulate myself
because mostly,
I’m just tired.
I could sleep for a week
or maybe a month
because I don’t know
what day it is,
or what time is anymore.

I want to imagine
sunshine in January,
but if you’ve never lived in Michigan,
then you don’t know
that’s the coldest month.

Was 2020, six years long,
or was it 12 minutes?
Did the world stop,
or did nothing happen at all?

I didn’t love
a single person,
not even myself
in the last 12 months –

or maybe I did,
because I don’t have
anymore Fucks to give.
I’m just tired.

I can’t cope,
with the mundane nonsense
of late stage capitalism,
and what I mean is:
working in customer service
during a global pandemic
has made me lose,
my god damn mind.
How can you bitch
about pickles,
when people are dying?

While the earth is melting?

While it’s all falling apart?

If I think about it too much,
I only want
to tear out my hair,
but if you’ve never seen me,
then you don’t know
how dramatic that would be.

I don’t know
what else I could really say
because mostly,
I’m just tired.

In the twilight
of a radical year
I’m left asking myself and everyone else –

What is the right thing to do?

I’m beginning
a Renaissance of self.
I’m sorry
that it happened this way,
but I think
for a moment,
inner and outer worlds
are exactly the same.

That’s not to say,
the dumpster fire
that became 2020,
has been extinguished –
and if you’ve ever
walked around NYC
in the summer time
then you know,
the distinct odor
of cooked garbage
never really goes away.


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