ManicWorld Magazine

These yuppies who speed toward this stop sign whilst sucking face
with their phone, sooner or later, one of them will look up after braking fast
and not take kindly to the way I stare into their windshield.

And while he idles here apologetically, I won’t walk slow. I won’t walk
fast. I’ll keep staring, compelling him to exit his car and leave the door
open before confronting me. Never mind the growing line of yuppies
behind him honking, staring, shouting, honking, staring, shouting.

His nasty words. My nasty words. His fist flies into my face. That’s quite
alright though. Cos you see, I keep my copy of The Collected Poems
of Frank O’Hara in an unlatched satchel slung above the small of my back.
It’s 589 pages thick, yet he doesn’t even see it coming.

Gripping its foredge, I smash the book’s 1.5-inch spine into his nose, cracking
bone, soaking everything from the table of contents to the index in blood.

Before you laugh, ask yourself, ‘Am I a yuppie? Do yuppies still exist? Do I exist?’

I’m not sure if I exist. I could be writing a book that will one day be used
as a weapon, either for or against me.

As for now, I’ve been so close to home, I haven’t been carrying my wallet. Another fist.
My face. The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara. Blood. But nobody gets shot.
And here come the cops.