Dreck

Leah Toledano

Suburban Restaurant Hysteria

If thou shall cast his fearful
gaze upon me, thou shall
suffer the wrath of thine
own reflection. For I am thee,
solely a mirror to perceive
thyself.

oh you gorgeous five dollar
pint, Monday special, at
the delightfully familiar semi-
suburban family-friendly
restuarant with your
uncomfortably designed
carpet that holds the crumbs
of each miserable family for
eternity come to think of it I
have always eaten miserably,
choking on the crumbs of my
father's dollar, spoiling our diets
with finger foods and appetizers
called "Tatchos" (tater tot nachos),
laid upon a table of five, when one
woman at the table next door cries
out "Oh my god, yum!" and later
a woman at the table next to her, who
has a kid that will not take his eyes
off of you, shouts "The ranch here
is sooooo goooood," where do you draw
the line between being in proximity to
a certain kind of people and becoming them,
when you look into the eyes of the Elk
mounted above the fireplace,
who do you see


Randomize Text Lines. Poetry Video from the 2020s.

I feel panicked because I cannot read the menu screen I am frustrated by the unwanted and
perpetual discomfort What if I had bottled the blood that poured out of her orfices in the
euthanasia room When she spilled the coffee on his laptop She started shaking his laptop like
she was shaking out a beach bag I am beside you with caution I am still annoyed sometimes No

No Longevity of self-identity I checked the time two minutes ago At least once a day for the first
two months I was purposefully tripping and falling further concretizing my fears I forgot my
glasses again My mother poses as an emergency hotline in a possibly codependent way Two
minutes have passed Rug burn I pull over on the sidewalk I remind myself of what I must do to

impress Consider and reconsider how I am standing I talk my shit To be honest the change
makes me feel semi-annihilated Things are objectively better now Ruben French dip I place my
rear on the edge of car bumper in a parking lot under the bridge Everything has changed now I
was having one of the tragedy days She shrugs off her weakness She does not take

responsibility This has nothing to do with that but I think something is a good thing though I think
the good thing will help sustain longevity The good thing being the slow emotional integration I
was confronted at home by our unchanging dysfunction It was at a time when I listened to
Bobby Shmurda and smiled at the concrete To exert every last drop of effort I am not entirely

unconscious around you You won’t stop talking about how hot you are But everything felt
impossibly concrete at that time Does your world sometimes feel near to its end Then I cry only
upon the recollection of her dying in my arms in that room I am ashamed when I want attention
I’m always worried someone knows me here Has it really How you are really feeling yourself

lately You are in the room too I did not forget I rehearse it all I throw down the heavy leather bag
then I throw down myself To my surprise Barefoot on the turf I cry for Lucia with such intensity
Falling back on the comforts of circularity How I am or am not crossing my legs It is a narrow
ledge so it hurts but in a way it helps redirect my frustration I always assume things to be worse

than they are But also, some people are the way they are I still like girlhood, which is closer to
boyhood than womanhood is to manhood Do you relentlessly cry for her too This would
eventually have to change She does not see the point in going on She fought for too long Ash I
say hopeful but feel flickers of hopeless You asked if I have every tried not writing myself into

poetry Acting in constant rebellion is not a sustainable practice but what other choice did I have


I did not recite the prayers and this time I wasn't scared

My armpits grow fragrant trolling the button-down-underneath-sweater duo I planned on wearing again to work tomorrow obscuring the last trace of girlishness, my perfume, which was front and center for my extended family as I gesture with a limp wrist whispering formalities and recent whereabouts in code It is not that I forgot to apply deodorant It is just that I ran out of the good one I think things of this sort as I am positioned in front of an open casket viewing a seventy year old man's body that looks like an orange glazed doughnut fit for a child beauty pageant I mumble to sister he belongs in Madame Tussauds and butcher the sign of the cross I offer to read a verse during mass restraining giggles as the priest squirts his holy water onto the casket which is escorted by seven veiny Italian men from Queens I notice how comfortable they have grown in those black suits envisioning them boasting about their large testicles That awkward moment when I am alone in the pew refusing communion destiny exposed fate torn open One of the bald big balls is assigned to drive us in the limo trailing behind the hearse He asks if we are ready before putting on tinted aviators I feel myself cruising watching his tattooed fist hit the turn signal When we land inside the cemetery gates I glance over at the seasoned grave diggers impatiently waiting for us to say our farewalls then I wonder if they finger blast each other at the end of the shifts for they know life is short At the top of the graveyard flanked by limestone crosses I look around and imagine by life masculinized uncompromised on the back of a motorcycle



John B. Oldenborg (he/him) called Tallahassee home. He recently graduated from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas with an M.F.A. in creative writing. His work appears or is forthcoming at Secret Restaurant Press, Petrichor, Tilted House, Masks, Hobart, Misery Tourism, Rougarou, Grotto, and elsewhere online. https://johnblakeoldenborg.wordpress.com/