You’re Not Supposed to Take Somebody Else’s Nostalgia
By Xandria Phillips
Will tells his wife he is not angry, despite involuntary flashbacks.
Black bodies affixed with rope to the bumpers of cars.
He is a child of the Tulsa massacre. Everywhere massacre,
transposing present. He becomes a cop, so they beat him
out of uniform. He becomes a vigilante, so they f*ck him
into submission. A black pansy craze resurgence, and
a Trent Reznor bassline to make me horny, as one considers
oneself lucky to be gussied at all. Dominique calls me
the patron saint of split screen, consuming as I create.
Work becomes increasingly difficult with enjoyment.
The gag is we’ve been living in each other’s bodies this whole time.
Stay with me now, we only have a single take to get this
point-of-view shot. Two men drag us by the legs
to a leafless tree. They throw a noose around our neck,
string us up by the throat, our vision blurs to blackout
before we are cut back down as a warning. We flee the scene
only to intercept an act of yt-on-yt crime, and then
we all come home to Will’s wife and admit that we are angry.
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