there should be an instagram for unpleasant things:
ranch stuck in beards and bikinis from poor angles,
blurry pictures of dead squirrels and row on
row of dirty dishes in sinks rarely washed
themselves,
legal disclaimers and rejection letters photographed
on resume paper in artful lower case
indexing the minor miseries of the era in a
hot harmattan wind of dorito dust and anxiety.
grid upon grid of the floor behind refrigerators
covered in little mouse shits, with saturated colors,
badly parked cars and wilted spring mix; oh,
leave it for our children as a monument, a windblown
antidote to the dulcet fascism of san serif fonts and
negative space, of making yourself out better than you
are, or saying that you aren’t, which in
the world’s deep cruelty amounts to
much the same thing.
