Issue 5
An unrealistic exaggeration of the river delta McDonald’s

An unrealistic exaggeration of the river delta McDonald’s

My dad shot himself in his car. When I was 22.  

Now my brain bursts with anxious black throngs  

of swirling bees.It’s a mistake to re- 

late death to the days I’ve stepped in shit and 

why I’m late to work. I know this. But when 

asked about my day at 8 I confess I cursed at 

cars that crossed the street. I can’t choose what 

was said. Or committed to memory.  Matches 

live in flammable houses.  


I want to leave. For my lunch breaks are too 

short to go far. And I don’t think I de- 

serve this afternoon ticket. Burned orange  

envelope snug beneath the right wiper blade.  

        There’s so much space around me that 

it’s haunting. Whole curbs can fit a car. But this 

one’s not free.  


As I drive I decide I’ll say I’m too tired for tomorrow.  

Maybe pick a plane to Spain where people take  

siestas. I’m not made to wait at every staggered stop- 

light down this winding street. When I’m in the air. 

        But if I break out onto the highway I’ll have  

to read those stupid signs with rhymes about my right  

to guns. And then the radio will fire off reports of  

penguins who suffer mass starvation.The heater’s  

cranked too high. 


I should slow down. I should not park on the shoulder.  

Nor commit crimes against myself. I would be towed.  

Instead I’ll stop for food when the sensation of matter  

rests in my mouth. I’ll sit in my own car. Bite into my  

own burger. Take a sip from my soda even if the sugar  

rots my teeth. I’ll forget about sound.The world will be  

a silent disco where people dance and callousness crunches  

in the craw—these small pains of being a person nestled  

next to pickle.And if I see someone who looks like him  

it won’t fuck me up. 


I’ll thank the Great Clown who so mercifully navigates  

my needs. Because I’ve learned the null spaces are things  

themselves. Even on good days ice waters down our drinks. We  

all share the cold in common. These roads are mere net- 

works like river canals—organic nervous system maps of  

a mother’s womb. The hot sun nourishes like  

fresh Chicken McNuggets.