Because I’m on fire. Because I’m a church. Because I’m Richard Pryor. Because I’m Google search.
Because O snap, Branch Davidian Gideon, a real burner, cinder incinerate drunk tank caloric intake shake. And bake. And I helped.
I perpetuated the mythology. I forwarded the message. I researched the glottochronology, desperate for a great grandparent to blame. Awe shit!—I wrote a poem about “picnics” etymology, the practice of picking a nigger for lynching. The practice of coloring cluster munitions the same shade as aerial food drops.
Because I am stuck in the lotus position. Because I nuked the leftovers, back to the Stone Age. Because—opah, etc.—Lake Erie exploded. Because Michael Jackson and Pepsi and toasters and bathtubs. I’m hot. Because I’m fly, a fly, a 747 fly into a twin, I’m 808, I’m 212, I’m a kindle that spreads jungle fire like Amazon, consummates the info ecology. This is why comparisons are odious. This is why all explanations fail. Because it is real. Because it is real. Because coincidence is mythical as God. A tree falls in the forest and no one’s around. It feels self-conscious, a stereotype. O koan, I’m hot because the Hilton’s on fire. Because the conference center is burning! I’m the severed breasts of my warrior mother, an ambidextrous archer. And I am the shit the entrepreneurs have taken on her honor.
Because I have survived extraordinary violence. Because I’m sensitive, I’m passionate, spontaneous. You ain’t. Because you not. An equation elementary as water. A formula of misinformation, a river that flows like mother’s milk. Let me explain: because I drank the Molotov. Now I am the revolution. Because I myself am hell. Because I myself am the pollution wafting from the Iraqi National Library’s ashes. I’m hot. Because I’m fly. You ain’t. Because you not. This is why. This is why. This. Is. Why.
—Nick Demske’s “I’m Hot” from BOMB’s latest installment of Word Choice. Artwork is Dan Witz, “Hoody Gas Mask,” 2011.

Because I’m on fire. Because I’m a church. Because I’m Richard Pryor. Because I’m Google search.

Because O snap, Branch Davidian Gideon, a real burner, cinder incinerate drunk tank caloric intake shake. And bake. And I helped.

I perpetuated the mythology. I forwarded the message. I researched the glottochronology, desperate for a great grandparent to blame. Awe shit!—I wrote a poem about “picnics” etymology, the practice of picking a nigger for lynching. The practice of coloring cluster munitions the same shade as aerial food drops.

Because I am stuck in the lotus position. Because I nuked the leftovers, back to the Stone Age. Because—opah, etc.—Lake Erie exploded. Because Michael Jackson and Pepsi and toasters and bathtubs. I’m hot. Because I’m fly, a fly, a 747 fly into a twin, I’m 808, I’m 212, I’m a kindle that spreads jungle fire like Amazon, consummates the info ecology. This is why comparisons are odious. This is why all explanations fail. Because it is real. Because it is real. Because coincidence is mythical as God. A tree falls in the forest and no one’s around. It feels self-conscious, a stereotype. O koan, I’m hot because the Hilton’s on fire. Because the conference center is burning! I’m the severed breasts of my warrior mother, an ambidextrous archer. And I am the shit the entrepreneurs have taken on her honor.

Because I have survived extraordinary violence. Because I’m sensitive, I’m passionate, spontaneous. You ain’t. Because you not. An equation elementary as water. A formula of misinformation, a river that flows like mother’s milk. Let me explain: because I drank the Molotov. Now I am the revolution. Because I myself am hell. Because I myself am the pollution wafting from the Iraqi National Library’s ashes. I’m hot. Because I’m fly. You ain’t. Because you not. This is why. This is why. This. Is. Why.

—Nick Demske’s “I’m Hot” from BOMB’s latest installment of Word Choice. Artwork is Dan Witz, “Hoody Gas Mask,” 2011.