Crush All We Cannot Control

Cassandra Troyan


I. In The Largest Scheme Of Things

Today is
the sort of day
when I march around
gleefully stealing
all the parking tickets
off of Mercedes luxury model
sedans.

A day when I seek out some
moment of mischief
as a distraction. 

When I have to destroy
all illusions of semblance
or place.
Someone help me.
Will you help?
Will you help smash this place to shit with our fists?
We’ll get wasted and live
out all the potential clich├ęs.
Trash the plastic
lawn furniture,
steal all the portable
phones from someone’s
parents’ house,
and pass out
in the middle of
the high school football field
on the 50 yard line. 

Whatever I am I am so much of it,
actions of regressive denial
kicking myself in the ass
while
running backwards.

Falling
down a sand dune, high
on LSD, dressed in a snow
suit in June
the sky feels like
a cat’s tongue moving over
dry skin,
awkward,
but with the intention
of pleasure
trapped inside.
I look out at the ocean and
I see an entire
fleet of trumpeters
calling me home.


II. Only Able To Speak A Single Word Or Sentence

I think it is still good
to be white in America
and know that there
are places where
I don’t belong.

The Mexican women
outside are throwing
around their big floral
skirts, and I am peeking
between the broken
plastic blinds.
By trying
to be respectful, I
am alienating them again.

You then said something about
once you start to see white
people jogging in the neighborhood at dusk
that means you know
gentrification has set in.

I smile slightly, glad that you even know
what gentrification is. 

But I am the one running down the
street and someone is calling me
beautiful, or talking about my ass,
or just shouts, LEGS!

Everyday I feel violence.


III. Paranoia/Acceptance: Philosophy is the pain that caused life

I systematically think of all the
horrible things that could
happen to me.

Violently crushed by an SUV
while biking down the street.
Stabbed in a back alley
during an evening jog.
Stepped out in front of a bus.

Once we realize the potential
of people and things
moving at
varying speeds
we have nothing to fear.

But still I
can’t ignore how
I used to write letters
I used to sign my name
I used to sleep at night.
And despite the fact of
doing it everyday, how
strange it is to be a human
sleeping in a bed
struggling against blankets,
against the images
plastered inside
your eyelids
of people
or things you were doing
and even then you
didn’t know why
you were doing them
or it.

We are still waiting
for the moment
when we can watch
our skin in repose
and then move
to un-pause.