Code

My messages have exceeded the storage limit and I covet a home. The cat and dog wait for me in particular and the dog has certainly shit on the floor. J’arrive. Sure, when I tweet approximately three people respond or like it, or say, “same.” I have a lot of broadcasts to no one. I keep a list of classic movies I want to own and when I find one I stack it in a cabinet—not in alpha order, but arranged in a chaos system known only to me. I catalog them on an app; scanning their barcodes makes a little chirp. I inspect them for gay clues. These days, I live at my parents’ house again and when I empty the trash at night the neighbor’s light bursts over the driveway. I’m caught, finally. Look, I would read the tea leaves if I could. I will dig the Magic 8 Ball out of the attic. Every January, my mother tells me this will be my year. Yes, a treasure. You see, it’s disconcerting really—how long I don’t know myself. How old I have to become. And I keep misremembering the same dream. In it, I am driving and every third car flashes its lights at me. Click, flash, click. Flash. I lean forward into a bit of it all.