My fiction wiggles into the world…

When the Bushwick manipulator
meets the Willytown cowboy,
the two battle it out
over a girl at Sophie’s on the LES.

Their Carhartt beanies go flying,
a ZYN pack is used as a weapon,
neither are wearing socks
so their delicate ankles get bit.

I watch from my lies,
and jot down notes in my phone,
spinning this like it is a movie
made just for me. 

The absurdity of identity,
the haunting past,
the writing future,
why can't I be fact?