It's a strange experience, running a perfectly good box of matches under the faucet, but aborting its potential was the only way I could rid myself of this relic from our first date. His name was Jason.

Circa 1997
Snoochie boochies. Mall rats. Slackers. Weed. Smells like Teen Spirit. Grunge. My So Called Life. MTV. PSYCHE. NOT.

Circa 2017
Fuck the haters. Major key. The life changing magic of tidying up. Palo santo. Sage. Ayahuasca. Sunset yoga. Setting intentions. Cross fit. Women’s march. Black lives matter. ACLU. Vice News. This is what democracy looks like. Woke. Get Woke. Love not fear. 50 days til the man burns. Radical Inclusion. Micro-dosing. Be the change. TIL. Yasss. :)

Overheard on Myrtle Avenue

Two black kids waiting for the bus. Their body languages says they aren't quite siblings, but closely affectionate. 

The boy is older, maybe 15. Long hair in braids. Serious. 
The girl looks up, stands close, listens.

I pass in a car, windows down. I gather just enough of the conversation for it to land.

"Did you know that 1 in 3 black men go to prison."
He looks to see how she's taking in this betrayal.
"ONE in THREE".