let us keep it real

i don't know what i'm doing.
i think too much about things
that don't concern me
* this morning, mosquitoes were abound
on my walk.
"this looks like
the spread of something dire."
how much i should be flinching.
will they stick? they fly well,
don't they?

* a girl
she wore a subway uniform---she
knows condiments---
she was changing a tire. lug nuts
on the ground
of the parking lot
getting off from work
i could change
a tire. no, i couldn't
not without a booklet

and it's kind of cold today
where do mosquitoes think they are?
haven't seen them all summer---
now here they come
have I unpacked my winter clothes?
like my ideas?
I could undress, but
the request
was to unpack
* i'm concerned about white boys
who walk around without jackets,
in short sleeves
i am dating one of these white boys
sans jacket
how do i feel?
how does he feel when i mark him
with the gaze he tutored me on?

i don't know if i'm really a feminist.
yes, i made this transition without
a buffer.
this worries me too.
i'm not smooth and i have no principles.
i don't know if i like the gifts
and if i like being worth the trouble
and if i like to be aesthetically pleasing.
i'm not sure whether i should be
flattered anymore or if i should maintain
that i'm oppressed. i am certain that a
mosquito got me.

i think about smaller things that
seem bigger. that woman with the cheap heels
is deranged. i remember her rant vividly.
she's asian and she talks loudly.
is she me? am i shrill, sometimes irrational,
and actually insane? i'm waiting for a
collective reply.

the woman next to me, not the asian woman,
i keep marking accurately, is black is talking
about keeping it real--- "you know what i'm sayin'?"
no i don't.
no woman is capable of this.
not for the life of me. i can't even admit
my inability to change tires.
part of me knows i can! can't be too hard.

and so i continue to think
and call people up, mostly friends, and ask
them: "am i worth this trouble?"
hoping they don't reply honestly. i know
they won't.
the white boy i'm dating, who doesn't wear
jackets---i'm very curious to see
his winter wardrobe, doesn't need to
reply honestly either.

so i wonder, i ponder, i ruminate:
"is anyone capable of keeping anything real?"
am i simply too young to know better?
what's better?
"that chicken-headed ho better not come
'round my house again with that mess.
i will straight up cut a bitch."
is that better? can't be. seems too upsetting.
the woman next door, the black woman, not the asian woman,
seems fine with this. therefore i am too.
not really.

the future is as fuzzy as this morning.
i had a meager breakfast and coasted
on fumes. i imagine this is what's in store.
i imagine this is what's waiting for me:
a light-headed feeling mixed with irritation.
the future is me lacking substance and only
getting by
on a hotpocket
again, it's barely something to worry about,
but i'm sure i'm mature enough to see
the trouble ahead of me.
i don't know what i'm doing and yet
i walk on like hotpockets are enough and
writting topics of interest and conversation
on my hand
for people, so as to appear half way coherent, is real.
and as i scratch my cold, tired, itchy arm,
i settle into the funk or existential meltdown
that is tuesday.
that's is as real as it gets.