Well, Okay

ryan fitzpatrick

 

 

 

 

 

In before the thinkpieces
on the aesthetics of Zoom calling,
the parasociality of the Twitch stream,
and false friendship. 

According to Pitchfork,
pop music is thirsty this summer:
There is no 
“horny on main” anymore
because everyone is horny,
everywhere,
on every account. 

Any relation where
two things can harmonize,
but mean differently. 

Maybe all I’m wishing for
is the contact high
of VHS nostalgia. 

Spooling a nest
of magnetic tape
sounded against the curb
back into its casing. 

Temporality’s
grimy like the body
grinding against itself. 

Kathleen Edwards
defining total freedom 
as a mutual lack of dependency. 

I don’t need you
and you don’t need me
except through the glitched frieze
of shitty download speeds. 

Big Yeetus,
take the wheel. 

Just don’t do it
on my account. 

All I can do 
is keep writing 
this project book
even though
the oppressive tone
of the project book is
only something that
The New York Times
complains about. 

It’s still tough 
when the cold vibes
of professional courtesy
meet the clear benefits
of writing through a problem. 

Unable to write today,
I clean the inside
of the bathtub. 

How bad is it
that I deeply relate
to this story about 
Japan’s 8050 problem? 

I hear an answer in
my favourite Kinks’ song
“Kyoto Sunset”:
I am so lazy,
I don’t want to wander,
I stay home at night. 

What will the social scar
of this moment be? 

Probably just 
a string of smug comments
misrecognizing 
the learned helplessness
of an economic freeze-out
as a failed sexuality. 

Thank god for 
this motorized scrub brush,
as gender reveals
spark wildfires
across the continent. 

On Instagram,
the skies in the Bay
are right out of Blade Runner. 

Watching the time-lapse
informatic of the smoke
over the Pacific Northwest
on my phone. 

Again,
it’s mediated information. 

Like feeling sick
when someone cues up Vangelis 
over some drone footage. 

Actual quote
from The New York Times:
This has been the busiest
two months I’ve had
in 22 years of selling islands. 

In the trailer
for the new version
of The Stand:
Baby, don’t worry
about a thing,
‘cause every little thing’s
gonna be alright. 

Walking down
the Glen Stewart Ravine,
I didn’t expect to read
a conspiracy theory titled
Covid 1984,
suggesting I search Facebook
to see Facebook’s the problem. 

It’s easy to point fingers
at the superspreaders,
but tougher to pin down
our structural failures. 

A bingo card recording which 
Calgary high schools get Covid
followed by the Principal of Bowness High
tweeting at Jason Kenney
about Covid hitting the quad
this early in September. 

I’ve watched enough
Among Us on Twitch
to know that it can be tough
to suss out the saboteur
when they are invisible
and randomly selected. 

Email from Cineplex:
Ryan,
Have you seen Tenet yet? 

All the little details
out of joint
like a bullet
returning to a gun. 

I really don’t
want to write about
Trump getting Covid. 

The complexity 
of the wind as it
moves the clouds
over the lake. 

A story circulating 
about an A.I.
reinventing phrenology. 

What’s the over-under
on getting Covid
from a re-opened casino? 

Right before being ejected:
You’re going to regret this. 

The University of Alberta
is laying off 1000 people. 

Ontario reports
700 new cases today. 

No, that’s
900 new cases
with a caveat
that testing is backlogged. 

Something about
blaming young people
who are mandated into
close proximity. 

Make sure your camera’s on
and it can see your eyes. 

 

 

ryan fitzpatrick is the author of three books and fifteen books of poetry including Coast Mountain Foot (Talon, 2021), Fortified Castles (Talon, 2014), and Fake Math (Snare/Invisible, 2007).