19 years of overwhelming balances, sir
Music heals.
Silence martyrs
the laceration.
And thus,
It is always recalled
worshiped
recorded
in the ancestral archives
of the library
which visits you
—a regular, it seems.
Well—Humph—Well!
Your membership with us, Library
—is revoked!
Beginning immediately,
your human will lose its access to
your files and records.
Please leave the premises.
For once.
For good
DOB:11/24/2002
I find myself
on this Metro-North station
train and it’s my
20th Thanksgiving.
You see, I find myself
in NewYork City, and
the elusive dreamers
they don’t faze me.
I do find that the jarring
on this train and on
this day of paradoxes,
the jarring comes
in the form of
a member of the
upper echelons of this
broken, tiered train car.
He is wearing corduroy slacks;
not ascending—already there, isn’t he?
And descending?
The glass ceiling ensures he won’t.
He’s lounging in his chair
And that Canada Goose winter coat,
that shit cost more than my entire
wardrobe of a suitcase.
He boastsa plaid dress shirt,
Preparation schooling, conditioning
worked; working.
Grey and white, calculated squares. . .
The crisp corners
are unweathered.
See, my gaze is often
settled on shoes.
WhenI was young
my shoes would be worn,
so holy as to be almost religious,
and Ma’ always said we
had to watch our budget, now.
Oncea year shopping ritual,
Target and Kohls. Ross.
My gaze is often settled on shoes,
soI may identify members
ofa congregation,
that would sneer at my peeling,
abrasive sole.
I have found one today
on this Metro-North station
train and he
has brand new spankin’ kicks;
nd an i-Pad, with cellular data.
He is engrossed in amassing
cultural capital, now isn’t he?
Consuming instructional, exclusive content,
what money can buy,
a Masterclass, I can see it,
clear as that ceiling, even from
this seat behind.
ThisWASP nob, this fuck, he has
the aesthetic,
the maneuvering,
the graceful god-damn ease,
which others lack,
all of us, in the back of the train,
we know it.
He’s gloating that boredom
is his hounding vice—and the
window of Harlem to his left isn’t worth
a glance, the decrepit infrastructure,
he will never notice, nor
the juxtaposition of the window scene,
five minutes into the future, when
AMR housing and trees and grass
appear to replace it.
The Masterclass, it depicts
the reality of this life;
As a kid,I just had books.
We had hand-me-down jeans,
clearance sale coats.
We have eroding vans on this Metro-North
train, we have two-for-one white t-shirts
and the most expensive piece of clothing
we’ve ever owned,a $300 leather
jacket you bought yourself to learn
what you could never know
in elementary school;
something about self-respect?
I have, on this 20th Thanksgiving of mine,
a novel in my backpack, still.
Why doI keep re-reading it?
I can’t seem to set it down
Of a seat
while he watchesYoutube videos
and broadens his vocabulary on
a learning channel I was never
able to tune into, and
this four year old, he is making it very trying
for me to practice gratitude, on this day,
whena concept, one-fifth of
my 20 years, has a destination already
arrived.
And I’m still journeying
and you’re still aimless
and we’re still finding ourselves
on this Metro-North station train.
Falafel Threat
Today I scared a child
and myself.
I was at a falafel restaurant
and smiled in greeting
to a puffy-haired toddler.
Who then broke down
pointing, crying
calling for his mother.
When did I become this,
this man whose smile does not reflect safety
nor comfort
but instead a danger
and a largeness?
Used to be that I would get a chuckle from
a child when I made a face.
Now I get only
fear-filled eyes.
Used to be dogs would come to me
like I was a treat.
Now they thunder and bare teeth
like I am that man.
It must be the eyes.
They must have changed with the years
the eternalness
of that zoning out my father always berated me
for exhibiting.
It must be the eyes.
It is then
best not to smile.
Prayer for 2022
Send a prayer up for me.
for them, for all.
—for you.
The years congeal, thicken in
the throat, your childhood
caught, catching.
Caution, retch, wretch, retch it
to the textured surface of the tongue, expel
this frantic phlegm.
2022, 2021, 2020, back peddle, rewind. . .
two decades, 7300 days, 175,000 hours
—one inconsistent stagnation.
The stench of change is synthetic sweet, antiseptic
clogging the nose—or is that mucus, the
tears in dual nostrils—is this a fragrance?
Olfactory remembrance is selective
exclusive, reactive;
the miasma of hands with-holding, traces, still.
What year, time convoluted, memory all the more
unrefined? One fabricates then dissolves a date;
yet solidifies, formulates a crisp hypervigilance.
It was not present, but now it seems it’s always been
sea, sand shade gestures, and irises
which observe and avert, where once they inquired.
I can’t recall when I noted,
absorbed, my halted heart.
A Tinnitus, whispers, whistling in silence.
One consuming the soul, unfaithful.
Inconceivable blood, it seems a
malediction—these two decades.
A malediction
to bring about recession
or replicate a cycle—how do you kill
a resuming pattern; perhaps you simply
excavate that razor-edged,
joy absorbing stone.
And clutch it till the claret runs in rivulets
press it, know it, know its past.
It’s past—refuse to be serene.
Cast off, abandon this resurrection stone.
To live is to caress each harvest, each spring
each batch of stale sensations, newly categorized.
Send a prayer up for me?
For them, for all?
For you?
No—enough with hopes, with invocations
offered or requested.
To 2022—a year unsolicited.
To Edvard
I am a passenger
of myself.
I can’t
reconcile
these fractures.
I am at odds
with the concept of
suffering.
Do I appropriate
I fear that I appropriate
The Scream
—but it is what I hear.
When I say I almost
dropped out
—but I did, you did—
Yes, but I got the degree, didn’t I?
My toys, systems.
My dinners, parasitical.
My night terror existing in the daytime.
This conscientiousness
has betrayed me.
And my bed,
psychological torment,
where I’d lay.
My birthday
was a fractured mirror;
reflected guilt
that I even breathed.
—but you had school. You had school, access to school.
Surrounded by resources, even if you couldn’t obtain them.
There were those who stepped in
—what about those who have no one
What about me
Victim
—beneficiary
Scarred
—polished
Forever in purgatory
Between heaven and hell
The first I can see, smell, taste, and hear
But will never feel
I want to be held, I feel I understand
—But do I? To what level? Why do I overthink to the point
of false clarity?
—the second
Hell
That seems to be
A more likely belonging.
Tommy Milutin is a writer, poet, and artistic creator currently based out of Boston, MA. Earning a prestigious full-ride Questbridge scholarship to Boston College, a nationally recognized academic merit, he is currently studying both English and Sociology in pursuit of becoming a journalist. He has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Alliance for Young Artists and Writers (Honorable Mention, The Wolf, Regional Award 2020), has had numerous poems featured in the Boston College long-standing literary magazine Stylus, and is a most avid proponent for the social revitalization of forks being social constructs.