In the final days of the gilded age, the last remaining son of Cornelius Vanderbilt buried a horse’s heart in the forest and took a shit in the hole. This is how railroads were invented; every last one of us was jealous. From the pulpit of the Wells Fargo Intersectional Art Center at The Funeral For Things I Used To Care About, a famous poet reminds the audience of the importance of demanding one’s worth, specifically in relation to financial compensation at literary events. So I rob a bank with a rotten banana. It goes fantastically—the patrons erupt with erotic glee as the security guards aim their revolvers & FAFSA money falls from the sky (at a 27% interest rate). The tellers take me to the vault, which is full of dead crickets. Every one of them will be kinder to me than any capitalist ever has.
Mark Cugini is a bratty switch thembo from Queens and/or Staten Island. They are a member of the Best Buds! Collective, a co-organizer of Whale Prom, and clinically depressed. Their chapbook I’m Sorry If My Traumatized Life Is An Inconvenience To Your Perfect Existence will be released this fall.