The Acentos Review

xUTOPIAx for Hoa Nguyen

And there is warm manufacturing in south New Caljforkya,
hills, and no hills, machinery hot with international
demand, and acrylic idleness. Once I have 9 internets and
evil café I might understand death by proxy NOW
unpacking angel hair inheriting loop circular NOW
crashing milk and stewed tomatoes NOW the TV singing
“take it to take it” featuring light up Anus 3000s NOW sip
broth NOW I am a boy playing tag at the Mary Lytle
Nature Center hiding under the milkweed bougainvillea
something patch. Flecks of sun make it through the
undergrowth and emblazons the bare dirt beyond. Other
children run, turn, call, crouch, utter, hide from the one
who is it, or who they think is NOW I sleep in the mailbox
of Saint Anonymous and Wasting. He’s a honey mercurial
calavera. He’s moss in winter. He fought in 2 gueras. He
eats rocks and rust and is blamed for headless snakes.
During earthquakes he is dancing. He’s a honey mercurial 
calavera NOW I miss the way we obsess over one another.
Sun and moon. We lived in different parts of town,
traumatopia and WASP Central. We’d do all the iceeee you
stole from work and I’d make enchiladas. We’d lie naked to
Grimes or A Flock of Seagulls or Cesária Évora. Maybe
have sex, maybe just gossip. We’d scrub each other in the
shower stocked with tea tree oils, the ceramic clean. I wish
it was like the night of queer cumbia, you drooling over me
in a sleeveless “Pies and Thighs” tee and long black jeans. I
wish we could wake to the sky hickey’d, oak trees bare,
thrashings stirring. I long for old school block parties, any
kind of BBQ, dancehalls with ill beatz or /rupture. I wish
people would embrace others outside of slaughter. I want a
future where every chingona gets a free bicicleta, painted
purple.