The Grinch tells you
caring for others is the meaning of the holiday.
Toyota thinks you
should surprise your family with a new truck.
Chevy Chase tells you
being together is all that matters.
Model shows you
people bonding over drinking a similar beer in a football stadium.
Charlie Brown tells you
commercialism is ruining Christmas.
Sephora wants you
to smell like shirtless men in a boiler room.
Tim Allen tells you
faith and family are the most important things in life.
Royal Caribbean says you
and your family should go on a cruise to Alaska.
Rudolph tells you
being different is good.
L.L.Bean says you
should have the same quarter-zip as every other man over 25.
Will Ferrell tells you
family is more important than your job.
Meta wants you
to stalk your coworkers to find the perfect Secret Santa present.
Hero Boy tells you
to believe there’s magic in the world.
Google shows you
Santa using ai to figure out how to dress himself.
Macaulay Culkin tells you
to never leave your family behind.
2wai thinks you
should use ai to trap your aging grandmother’s soul inside your phone.
Tag: literature
Sides of the Lake
Each side of the lake
has a neighborhood.
One has
tall houses,
wraparound decks,
private sheds, docks.
The other has
ranchers, trailers,
kayak racks,
flagpoles.
A motorboat goes by,
with a child in an inflatable tube.
A small boat coasts along the edge.
Three men stand on different sides,
fishing rods in hand.
One waves across the lake
at another boat
with other men doing the same thing.
A child stands on a paddleboard
off the shore of a backyard.
An older woman watches her
from the porch.
Another motorboat zooms by—
faster, a larger wake.
Your kayak rocks.
A single man on board,
music blaring, hair flowing in the wind.
Through the Window of Your Car
I look through the window of your car
a week after you went missing, no hope
of seeing you there.
The patience of the hardware store owner
dwindles with the police’s efforts to
organize search parties.
Flowers in the altar around your bumper
stretch into the adjacent spaces,
wilt in the autumn sun.
I come here every day after school
to tell you what you missed, no hope
of hearing your voice.
The saddest people to lay bouquets,
the same ones who bullied you
seven months ago.
They tell stories of how you joked around,
then repost some hotlines and hashtags on
their Instagram stories.
I only remember their faces
contorted in laughter after
calling you a slur.
The sun sets earlier each day.
I feel its growing shadow, no hope
of seeing you again.
An Open Spot
A heatwave swallows the mountain.
Attempt to escape.
Turn off to Trillium Lake.
A line of brake lights greets you
half a mile from the lot.
The wait and the crowd seem
less worth the trouble every minute.
Try Clear Lake next,
find a full parking lot, cars
parked illegally along the highway.
Form a new plan, wait to slip in
as people leave in the afternoon.
Drive up to Timberline Lodge,
see Trillium below, its surface
as much boat as water.
It’s hard to care about the debates of the Entmoot
when the flames of Mordor surround you.
You drive back to Timothy Lake,
through three parking lots
to find an open spot.
On the water, you stop paddling, coast in the shade.
Cold water drifts through your fingertips.
Three Assemblies in November
I.
The Friday
after a presidential election,
the school gathers in the gym.
There’s a speech, then
the concert band performs the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite veterans from the community to attend,
parade through the gym behind a banner
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
II.
The Friday
after the next presidential election,
a different school gathers in Teams meeting.
There’s a speech, then
the yearbook advisor plays a slideshow set to the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite students and staff to submit pictures and bios of veterans in their families,
honor them as integral parts of the community
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
III.
The Friday
after a third presidential election,
the school gathers in the gym.
There’s a speech, then
the concert band performs the Armed Forces Medley.
As tradition,
they invite veterans from the community to attend,
stand up to be recognized
as their branch’s theme plays.
You only see
the empty spaces where people should be.
a classroom on november third
fluorescent light
under eggshell ceiling tiles
fallen rain against the window
barely audible
under student discussion
diffuse sunlight
above papier-mâché projects
and stacks of loose folders
around the surface of the wall-length counter
Fallen pine needles
in the planter outside the window
odd angles
raindrop craters in the soil
wrinkled papers and disheveled notebooks on desks
an archipelago of unfinished work
fallen leaves in the hallway
a trail from the carpeted entryway
to the threshold of your room
fun-size candy wrappers and broken pencils
haphazard across the thin carpet
over a concrete floor
Two Canada Geese
Two Canada geese
swim out from the shadow of the tree line
along the edge of the lake.
They turn at a right angle,
travel around the dock
along the boat ramp.
A motorboat
pulls in to moor
at the end of the dock.
The geese startle,
flap their wings, spin,
give a wide berth.
They continue
to the shore, turn to continue
along the edge of the lake.
People in paddle boards,
children and dogs
crowd the shallow water.
They slalom
around the obstacles,
reconnect beyond the beach’s reach.
Two Canada geese
swim into the distance
along the edge of the lake.
Why do leaves change color in the fall?
A robot
scans an email
written by another robot,
summarizes it, generates a response,
sends it.
The human
watches a video of the president
drinking cola from a golden chalice
in his seven-fingered hand.
A robot
scans multiple pictures of a family at the Trevi Fountain,
crops out the other tourists. It
decapitates each family member,
replaces their heads with
the most algorithmically sound combination of their faces.
The human
selects the best generated
version of their family
to post on social media.
They scroll pass pictures of
their kid’s unruly hair in the wind,
the contact information for the cop they talked to after being pickpocketed,
the blisters on the balls of their feet.
A robot
optimizes the words in the description
for user engagement, search engine results.
It comments on the post,
gets into an argument with another robot
about the best must-see attractions in Rome.
The human asks a robot
for ideas about what posts would gain the most traction,
for answers on their tests and essays,
for opinions on pop culture and politics.
A robot
buys, sells stocks
for fractions of a cent in fractions of a second;
buys a house for a property management company
from a robot
working for a different property management company;
determines the price of eggs for a national grocery chain.
A person
stares at the maple tree
outside the dining room window of their apartment,
writes a poem
about how their body changes as they age,
posts it to their blog.
A robot
gulps the poem down its maw,
grinds it into a binary chyme,
regurgitates its parts
when a user asks a question about autumn.
On the Surface of the Water
Soft ripples in reflections
of the shore and the ridge behind it
create a fluctuating barcode
on the surface of the water.
You row by a tree trunk doing a headstand
in the middle of the lake.
Its body leans at a 60-degree angle.
As you approach, you find
several large nails hammered into it,
abandoned.
You stop rowing,
watch drops of water fall from your paddle,
the growing ripples trail behind you.
A subtle breeze over still water,
which changes color
in the clear reflections of
the green ridge,
the blue mountain,
the brown shore.
You travel through
a village of stumps in the lakebed,
decapitated a century ago.
Their raised roots spread like spider legs.
Footholds are carved in their trunks.
On your way back,
you see two motorboats descend the ramp.
You hear them start,
see them speed to the opposite side of the lake—
still audible once out of view.
The reflection of the mountain
becomes a pale static.
You Are Not a Person (For Taylor Swift)
You were once
(of course), but it’s not
that world anymore.
Do you remember
summer days
when you could enter a coffee shop
without people noticing?
When you could read a book in the park,
the sun on your full face?
When you could walk home
under the evening’s raspberry sky?
The internet flattens people.
We know it. We hate it
when it happens to us;
you are different—
separate.
People are allowed to be complicated,
deserve shape, depth, empathy.
People need you, however,
to fit a narrative with
plot points and themes
clear as a Hallmark movie.
You cannot deviate
from the ideas in their heads.
You are an object—
a doll for fantasies of wish fulfillment.
How long has it been
since you could act without acting?
Since you could do something without the next ten moves planned?
Since you could talk to someone without your mask on?
Your wealth
—deserved or not,
ethical or not—
makes you a symbol,
a proxy
for whatever debate
the algorithm decides to prioritize.
It’s not your name
anymore;
it’s a brand,
a buzzword,
a search engine optimization.
You are an object—
a tool for the exploitation of consumers.
When was
the last time
you could share a thought
without having to consider
the opinions of CEOS or heads of state?
The last time
you could answer a question
without having to consider
the fates of the hundreds of employees who depend on you?
The last time
you could post a picture of your lunch
without having to consider
the moral implications of your plating?
You chose
to make art,
to share it with people.
You didn’t choose
to not be a person.
We did that
to you.
M. Espinosa 