THE FELT

DJ Ashtrae | XXO MEWSYC 4m

I sit on my trash library bin, haunted. Eels, get off my grill. Rain wears on the
mica. The sun may pass over today but hasn’t. Maybe he’ll find a new gay
cocksucker with more muscles and hair, and he won’t come home. ++++++++++
Hustling clouds, huffing commuters, barrages of bedfellows. A cut of 1991, ’74,
the 40’s. Night shifters come home from their lockup. The cardboard express
passes, never single mahogany rage for tall roses. We can do that thing. Listen.
We can watch basketball. Yup, and detect soft, simultaneous earthquakes, and
create special FX. Derange me. +++++ ++++++++++++++++++++ He smells of
4:37 a.m. He bites my sunburn, then goes to the sink. I play la accordion. After I
set him up at my desk I suck his papaya, not super ripe. Precummy. The back of
his ears got a little foam. Stack legs. Blur skeletons. I pull your lichen. You crank
and wake. ++++++++++++++ They give us what they think we are worth, a green
light. You tell me Doctor GRID went bankrupt documenting an outbreak.
Headlights by chance catch his frumpy silhouette—scarring the dinner party. In
my car you lay on your stomach, clutching the door handle, wearing only
fauxtex gloves, angry I never ask for this. These jeans are killed in action.
Doctor Electronic taps plentitude on the forearm—returning knife lava before
work, his repose ripped in half because of the endless phone calls and heavy
formalities. There was an almost legible pattern but the proof expires as hard
gel greets your stomach hair tableaux that dampens, shy less dime less dye less
dare less point sleep confidently.







I had glue that I could smear wildly. I put it on him so we could stay together
finally. But the bottle broke and got all over my carpet, flooded into the next
room, and oozed out of the window onto my neighbor’s life. My carpet trolls
me. It lurks in unlit areas waiting to snatch my deposit. I dream about it and it
dreams about me. I run into it on the platform and it live tweets my
masturbation sessions. I want to want you. My cat leaves sacrifices on its
tongue. Night rays nuzzle my hand like my middle name is magic. Maybe I say
Goodbye in a way that speaks to wanting us to be more. Half conscious I’m like
in high school again and the bell rings and the excitement carries us back into
the routine and he leaves in the morning. I remember the super sonic bus ride
with the slumped stiff +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ arched backs. We
went nowhere. ++ BURN UNDER PRESSURE THURSDAY ++ Highly tailored
Medusa, fill me with ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ honey. Do you
love me? I’ve climbed mountains for pure coolness. And to own this awesome
purple sweater. I stole it from a friend who thought he was saving the world by
collecting nickels, working the network thing thriftily. He also slam-dunked
econ exams thanks to me. I did them for money. He led me on, and returned
my Yamaha all messed up—the tires covered in green dust, left side slippery,
red strings in the spokes. Where did you go, Pixar’s replica Jupiter TGIF sex
lounge? We used each other until he got with her and I threw myself at jocks
like Fernando Valenzuela’s holy God I’m atop gringo city screwball. I climbed
the hill until the city turned into a heap at the foot of a puddle, a pile of
corroded batteries. I want to look like a treadmill, sleek bendy with many
settings. A yellow and grey fox wanted to bite me and hurl me over its shoulder
but it was so small and cute. People wear wedding clothes while jogging. One
day I’ll get down to Etchoquila. Rustic man with mustache, let the tattoos take
over your cheeks and chin.







I once made you violently ill. You said it was okay, it was your fault; an
epidemic to ourselves that you can over think or think it’s over. My ex man’s a
burnt playa. I’m young. I know how to be beautiful and not much else. I drag
my expiration to fondle askew analysis. Is this station 2D? It made me moan,
you said the medicine is impossible to get NOW You gave me injections on our
first date without telling me, I guess to save my life. Sneaky. You should have
given up since you didn’t give up only to later quit. It’s hard to feel sorry for you
since this was your logic: there is Saturday night and then there’s anatomy.
There’s shots and then there’s shots. Things are hard for me, too, boy, fuck. If
you cry about this, you said, you must have it pretty good. I lose a friend in
Fontana, and three friends NOW and this summer feels good licking the sand.
Dear disc masc wants me to take his rash. Those are real angels and stars on
you gown, Lady of Guadalupe. Wanna be devils be beautiful elsewhere. What
position are you feeling? This is my place, welcome nightmares.







Age 19 

to flirt in the morning
and a make a casino 
from chili flakes of affection

picante Rican lights
put the devil to sleep—
shattered grass, wicked drains

the fizz of dead gays and others sobbing
the broken is stuck
jackets fade 
to pastels 
to sex work
in order to give your torment 
a way







Broken Record 

two seahorses fall in with the flock
to make beds from nowhere /

he calls seagulls when it’s sunny + sets me on fire when cold /

a twisted heart should break
more often it becomes stuck
sick of its own luck






DJ Ashtrae (Joshua Escobar) was the Dean’s Fellow in Writing at the MFA Program at Bard College (Class of 2017). He was a Merit Fellow at the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley (Class of 2016). Caljforkya Voltage, his first chapbook, was published by No, Dear/Small Anchor Press this fall. He is a CantoMundo fellow and lives in Brooklyn.