by MLA Chernoff
MLA Chernoff (@citation_bb) is a Jewish, non-binary pome machine and somehow a PhD candidate at The Neoliberal University of York University. Their first collection of pomes, delet this, was released by Bad Books in the spring of 2018. Their second collection, TERSE THIRSTY, is now available through Gap Riot Press. Have a nice day, please stay hydrated, and remember that your feelings are valid xo xo.
No, New York (Squelching for the Red of a Hook)
New York City, huge-ass ditty—
dishing out the egomaniac’s kiss,
an empirical sate of mind whose old colossus
treasures in the ancient synecdoche
of an all-pert carpet sidelining Beard Street,
where meatballs spryly fall from
the wry train of infinite resignation,
as though the city had never happened before,
its mild-wild eyes reprimanding reprimands
in the name of a monogamous nation-state,
shopping for a sectional on a date with IKEA
because it can’t stand itself.
We and Me wobble to the pizza box clocktower,
devour it devoutly in low-power mode, and coax out a
synthesis of hands, kisses, and other disses with which to
heave and flip their faces toward the jade-vexed sky
and really just swish it out in the name of compacted tourism
and other formalities preceding a prolapsed protest.
It’s here-where simplified filaments glissade around in
decked-out schillings to end their nine-to-fives:
grounded, sad, and tersed of squelch in overcharged
batteries, tunnels, and parks—real estate that
charges your rent rent, only to squelch into a perfectly
squared union of foolery where the grass leaves can’t
predicate themselves no more.
We and Me glower to the knowledge
that all class traitors are blue without blues:
payed-out parabolas pissing out the parlance
of a skid-marked tongue, re-colonizing the land
where the pig meets the mud and the sun
meets the bun of a bodega-chopped long pome
that zounds a nation two-hundred years on.
In their bedroom before the war, it’s We and Me who piss
up the city’s supply of serotonin and refuse
the romantic antics of Bryant Park’s Whitmanian snuff club.
If Whitman were alive today, he’d misgender them loudly
in a back booth at Stonewall and eye them like twinks
in the twinkle of his constellated horny—
fuck yeah, they’d do it, if only to remember that
queerness can’t end imperialism on its own, that
this cock is a colonizer whose tip is not
speared enough to spare us the caprices of capital.
Any which way the eyes are in day—
it’s stark as mourning when stadium lights
mutate the boulevard into biopowered
landscapes of insomniac girders,
gridding families into economies of
solar-floundered sleeplessness, mobilizing
babies into the screeching cop killers they
have only ever reamed of—
in the pang of an open, red eye,
reduction begets induction and
crime begins to rhyme with some kind of
restfulness that flexes on the margins
of third-wave coffee, laughing
at the townhomes of a next-core
gentri-fucked borough, while dedicated ouroboros
crane their thick necks to sieve out a guttural
“fuck!” at the market’s arthritic paw—
it’s Toronto, uncleaned; it’s fascist and mean.
We and Me hobble into and out of the
morning of their slumber, while the city burns rubber,
ideates itself back into the closet, and
screams red alerts onto filmset squabbles. Miles away,
the downtown buildings unfetter suspired suspicions into
countersigned collected sighs, only to realize that the
post-9-11 mans has always knocked twice.
They finally admit it: they can’t land themselves—OW!
They offer this saxophonic truth to honour the
fractals of bridges, of buses,
and the fires they’ll seize in the palimpsestual thick
of a secret buried borough birthed by those
consigned to the quenched-out words of Emma’s
vandal—assemblages of rioters chuck petit bourgeois
meat and perhaps matzah balls at their origin
until the dumbfuck rozzers ain’t nothing but satchels
of regret, pecked to death by egrets and more
sensible comrades who gunningly puzzle out the
space between unions and thin-lined regimes.
Slacking in their slug-teethed gullets,
We and Me dig for memories of Zunes in
the dunes of a city-mold that quickly splinters into islands
of heart-things and recondite tantric antics,
unfounding paintings of nullified nexuses and
noodle-stuffed cups who signify snarls of
drummed electrolysis, plumping, instead,
for fricative fuck-faces,
brooming an unsmelt paralysis
to laugh up laps of paranoiac parodies of
their own damn industries.
On some velvet morning,
We leaves Me for a life of stolen lunch,
under the covers of a younger Jesus, who
espouses some no-name Kabbalah;
it’s goth as fuck, really.
Me leaves We for the hot Hassidim who
wouldn’t light a candle to their
nearly-goyish, queerly toyish ass.
That’s the thing about the large apple,
everyone stems to the core an unceded
precedent for the coldness of warmth;
No New York beckons the eunoiac sconce of
No, New York while the young and dumbassed adobe slabs of
Times Square finally crumble like goat cheese
on the hook of some world-famous pie.