CROWN SONNET IN WHICH THE SPEAKER MOVES TO L.A.
After Kelly Lorraine Andrews
I watch Jennifer’s Body at Holly-
wood Forever Cemetery, where I
do a key bump in the porta-potty,
and a cosplay goth girl reads my Tarot.
We drink and smoke on top of dead people.
This time last year I was there with my ex,
it was Día de los Muertos. Expensive
appropriation of my culture, but
really, I wanted to be Aubrey
Plaza, in Father John Misty’s music
video that alludes to fucking on
famous headstones. And a crazy ex
which I now embody. Since you dumped me
for a trashy, young TikTok influencer.
~
Trashy TikTok influencer: a brunette,
an L.A. 3, but former Pittsburgh 9. Which
is also now true for you. I wonder
if she goes to sound baths, or likes mezcal.
Hope you're having fun with your rebound—
I’m having a blast. Vaping, kissing girls
at the club on New Year’s Eve. Hiking to
the Hollywood Sign. Dancing at The Short
Stop until close. Street tacos, ketamine,
brunch with my best friend. A spiritual
healer from Nashville. We drink oat matcha,
do Reiki in Echo Park. Walk home drunk
holding hands, just high as fuck. Vibing off
the jacaranda trees that smell like cum.
~
The jacaranda trees that smell like cum,
in the warm June breeze. It’s Pride Month, and I
am walking down Sunset, vegan ice cream
dripping down my chin. A random Hinge girl
wants my birth chart: Aries Aries Cancer.
I don't text her back. I’m emotional
after the paintball hit-and-run last night—
pink plastic paint hit my neck, chest. Fucking
asshole kids cackling, aiming at queens
coming out of Akbar. Helicopters
searching: woman with knife on foot, I love
this neighborhood. The bodega, oyster
spot, where the sommelier gives us free wine.
The Scientology sign ominously
~
staring me down. Scientology guard dogs
surveil my street at midnight, when I go
out for a smoke. While I wait for Uber,
Grubhub. The girl I just met on my b-day.
She washes her hands before sex. Says this
is 38. Says parking is hard here,
isn't it? Sorry I’m late. Also, traffic
is a bitch this time of the day. Her kinks
include choking, biting, shibari rope,
but she forgot the strap-on in her car.
Her dog watches us fumble, while my cat
yawns and stretches across my kitchen floor.
She doesn't comment on my body, or have
belly button lint. Doesn't open my fridge,
~
like the men, with belly button lint, that
open my fridge. Looking for beer. Trulys,
something to eat. Making themselves at home.
Amateur photographer, Aztec tatts.
Says damn, my tits are huge. Buys my Lyft
to Pasadena. A mediocre quickie,
I already know I won’t come. At least
he's not a DJ, barback, or a comedian.
No musicians, no actors, no writer/
directors. Swiping left on Tinder like,
I've already seen this movie before.
A barista astrologist says let’s
microdose ayahuasca in Peru. Let’s
bike up The Pacific Coast Highway.
~
Biking PCH already a cold memory;
that first year I was here, living with you
and your boys on Normandie Ave. We'd bike
to The Greek, or The Bowl, or Zebulon.
Where we argued once, right before I left.
You got drunk. I ugly-cried in public
again. But it’s okay. It’s not that deep.
I've done the shadow work. BetterHelp each
week. I’m still pretty new, 3 years next May.
My own place. Serving gig, at a goddamn
restaurant again. I haven't seen the
ocean in months. But I recognized Kim
Gordon on Hillhurst, which affirmed my crush
on another guitarist: She’s on tour,
~
playing guitar internationally,
for thousands of people, you could never—
She’s a chaotic sapiosexual. We met
a week ago, at a garden party.
Through a designer friend, who’s hung up on
a straight guy who lives with his ex-girlfriend
still. We go to after parties. Venmo
for drugs. Wait in bathroom lines together,
take selfies in the stall. No shame peeing
in front of each other. Or fucking on
the 2nd night. Non-binary triple Virgo.
Such a vibe. We’re going to collab.
She likes my poetry. I like detaching
the artist from the art. Everything is
~
everything, Lauryn Hill sang once. After
drought, must come flood. After love bombing me,
she ghosted. Prob back at her ex’s sublease.
NBD, I’m with a biker babe at
the Keith Haring exhibit. Trippin’ on
psilocybin on a Thursday downtown.
Neon canvas pulsing manic pop art.
I call her my art daddy, we make out
in front of The Radiant Baby. We
turn heads more than the phallic totem poles.
Capitalize on reckless abandon,
afternoon delight, queer karaoke.
We make it rain ones at Jumbo’s Clown Room.
The girls love our energy, but wink at
~
the men that give back tired-ass energy.
We go home, do titty bumps, listen to
Sade. Millie’s diner for breakfast. I look
around, in case my ex or Eric Andre
walk by. I’m nonplussed by polyamory,
but breaking patterns is my new mantra.
It’s cool, I regulate my attachment
style. Everyone is devastatingly
gorgeous. Girls in Carhartts, short kings strutting
Dickies. I’m pan, and fluid, and dig on
gender-affirming haircuts, but have
body dysmorphia and an autoimmune
disorder. Imposter syndrome to boot.
These feelings are valid, on my Insta–
~
gram story. Where I measure my valid-
ity, and self-worth with likes. Where I post
cringe, passive-aggressive memes. Hoping
my other crush will see the real me.
She’s a chef at the new queer bar. Edgy,
Shane from The L Word looks. I took this other
femme there once, sat at the bar, ordered fries.
She was married though—to a man. Just my
type: monogamous, blue eyes, freckles. Cute
AF. Made sure unrequited crush babe saw
us, from the swinging kitchen door. Sitting
real close. Her hand, my leg. Physical
touch, my love language. Because I don't know
if I’m real, if I’m not being touched.
~
I don't know if I’m real, if I’m not
being touched. Fuck being embodied. Fuck
a revenge body. Fuck a beach body.
This body, that betrays me. Fuck this IUD.
Fuck my bleached green hair, that falls out daily.
Fuck you, for not picking me up from LAX,
when I got back from Mexico last year.
When you said let’s take a break, let’s give up.
Let's roll the credits on this shitshow. Cut
this scene out of the B-movie of our lives.
And yes, I binge-watched it all fade away.
Remember when I showed up to your gig
with a random stuntman I had just met
on Abbot Kinney? Hell yes. I’m petty
~
like that. Petty, toxic, and I looked hot
that night. Remember how it rained for six
months after that? How when I moved out I
scratched my name on to your teal KitchenAid
I had bought you for Christmas? So every
time cream cheese mixes with eggs and sugar
the taste of rancor in your throat will be—
me. And I'll be laying here naked, sex-
ting someone else completely in Texas,
or Louisiana, or Pennsylvania. Through
car alarms, past the withdrawing junkie
sheltering at the corner ministry.
Transmitting electric pulse over the 101,
Dodger Stadium in the rearview, northbound.
~
Dodger Stadium: icon of stolen land,
Mexican-American families
displaced. History of acquisition.
But let’s all celebrate the lowriders,
give 5-star reviews to elevated
taco vendors, curated for gringo
palettes. I've never liked Sriracha,
so I guess I'll be single forever.
I take a long drag off my neighbor’s spliff.
We trauma bond, divulge our long distance
situationships that got us both cunt-struck.
Dude’s dark sunglasses make me look only
at his yellow teeth. I’m spitting vitriol
about love, work, and politics again.
~
Again, love. Again, work. Again. Begin,
again. Let’s make love like we've never known
violence, preaches Sandra Cisneros,
from her San Miguel de Allende estate—
while I’m ashing butts in sadly lit rooms.
And scene, someone says loudly. Moonlighting
as a PA. By scene I mean, Coachella.
By sadly, I mean ancestral trauma.
Which is to say, can't wait for Burning Man.
I've never been. Bitch, I’m cosmically
thriving. Like these palm trees, these succulents,
these prickly pears. I’m ready for my big—
break, down. Because damn, I’m truly broke.
No joke, here’s the QR code to my OnlyFans.
~
Here’s the QR code to my OnlyFans. Perfect
feet pics for my old foot fetish flame from
San Diego. Romantic surfer, drinks skin
contact wine. Lana Del Rey on vinyl.
Say less. I'll edit the malaprops in post.
I watch the self-tape where I implicate
myself in these lines. AirDrop my whole block
a link to the flier for my performance:
It’s today. Right now, and now. And now. And,
when, you think, is the next time I'll get laid?
I ask the corner psychic. She says my
aura is purple. That I should just man-
ifest abundance, honey. That I should
HOWL holy holy holy with my whole
body. Watch Hollywood from my window.