Friday Speculation by Kelly Chen

Weekly Progress

Our heads, the little boy that I used to be

Dreams of american football and lights beneath the sheets

Friday speculation, we’re not getting anywhere

Saturday watch the week wanting to end, again


My arms, will watch the street lights hum

Complaints with my legs out the kitchen window

Sunday drowning in my religious sedative

Monday morning reconstruction of liquid infrastructures


Our heads, the moving framework that we hardly live in

Movement across the room, burrowing mines in the ground

Tuesday afternoon, the ceiling looks like more to you than it does to me

Wednesday night I count my bruises with bright eyes


My arms, will reach over the veins of this city

Where my movement is plotted x comma y

Thursdays I am the flood and the sincerity of merging

Fridays I am hearts swelling in the place of wet and hard body parts


a letter to a stranger

dear stranger i see us talking through tin cans with strings unapologetic about how our boyhood swayed and pushed up against the barricades i am not sure what the trouble was but i ran away anyways i made promises from across the subway platform that could be broken with medication and if you try to ask me what i am doing on a wednesday at 7 pm i will tell you that i do not know but if it is trouble then there is a pill for it i see stripes and things that glow when the street lamps turn off in the morning you are debris in the light and a child reborn i love when it is too cold to be the middle of july and vague reminders of complicated things i am sorry for the weight of the evening but it disappears the morning after you are softly spoken darker days and your mother falling asleep with the television on you are chests that brim i am sorry for most things even those that i am not responsible for but you are a foreign body in domestic affairs and loving parasitic reign on some nights i can see the holy modern dancers and their falling silhouettes you are an entire memory that happened somewhere unforgiving