“No one appreciated Van Gogh until after he died,” they said, like it was a reason to keep going. I saw it as a reason to stop. I hadn’t painted in months. “What a shame,” I thought, “to be a modernist in a world already modernized.” I was evicted from my apartment. I had painted …
Bus Terminal Man
This man thinks he’s so thick sitting across from me with his legs spread, grey sweatpants bunching tight at his crotch. He leans back in his seat, shifts his hip, hand on his thigh, makes me feel like I’m eating this granola in the wrong way, too seductive, asking for it.