Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2023.

I. hornman, n.

I don’t really know 
what I’m doing anymore.

I feel like a spit valve
at the end of a show.

Every day is the same
four songs on repeat.

II. mug, adj.

Track 1:
the first things I see

are angry numbers
telling me to wake up,

roll out of bed,
make myself look human.

III. bummill baty, n.

Track 2:
I sit in a Starbucks drive-thru,

then I sit in backroad traffic
behind school buses,

before I sit in a cubicle
and enter data into a spreadsheet.

IV. mirligoes, n.

Track 3:
7359672056 tab 4214 tab 60.89 enter.

Thin, black numbers
in small, white boxes.

Veins between the pixels
come into view.

V. mingei, n.

Track 4:
Rectangles, rounded edges.

Talking heads in news rooms,
vlogs in cluttered bedrooms.

They all keep talking
into their own headphones.

VI. mizzler, n.

When does the
narrative begin?

Where is the
inciting incident?

Why must every day
bleed into the next?

VII. machinga, n.

When I was younger, people said
there were many paths.

They pitched careers like rolexes
on streets around tourist traps.

But “following my dreams”
stranded me in data entry.

VIII. raccoon, v.

Is it possible
to start over?

Take a different turn 
down a side street

on an evening walk,
not go back?

IX. anticipant, adj. and n.

Pack a duffel bag
just in case.

The mountain looms over
the end of the highway.

The exit sign shines
in the evening light.

X. rampike, adj.

A vision:
the highway twists,

decays like felled leaves
in the late-autumnal sun.

I take the exit
back home.

XI. asante sana, int. and n.

You should be thankful, Kenneth.
Many would kill

for what you have.
How dare you

take that for granted,
try to leave it all behind?

XII. whenua, n.

These trees, these hills
are home to me.

I know their stories;
they know mine.

Why would I leave
the only family I know?

XIII. shockeroo, n.

Stuck in limbo:
desire for change, comfort of not.

I am a boulder, but am I at
the bottom of a hill or the edge of a cliff?

I awake each morning
exasperated.

XIV. fetissan, adj.

Dig out my trumpet
from the back of the closet.

Lie on the bedroom floor,
on my back, eyes closed.

Let each note bounce off the ceiling
to give me an answer.

XV. minnowed, adj.

Eyes open.
Small black dots

scatter across the ceiling
like fish in a crowded pond.

The ghosts of fallen tears
connect my eyes to my ears.

XVI. deepfake, n.

At work, the next day,
I leave my body, watch

someone with my face
type on a keyboard endlessly.

Their face wrinkles, their hair greys,
They keep typing.

XVII. ecofact, n.

Above their desk
on the grey cubicle wall,

a flyer from a concert
ages ago

at Jazz Alley,
my name in large letters.

XVIII. articucho, n.

A pain in my chest
like an ice pick through my ribs.

There’s no air in this office.
Everything is so loud.

Even the lights 
are failing.

XIX. forslow, v.

Friday.
I’ll leave Friday.

I’ll pack the car,
leave the office

and never come back.
Definitely.

XX. hippodrome, v.

Friday evening.
Sparse highway.

The exit sign wears
a mask of wet leaves.

But my gas tank is low;
I can’t chance that.

XXI. raniform, adj.

Why is it
I jump

whenever I get close
to doing something

I want to do?
Why am I so scared?

XXII. snorker, n.

When I was younger,
I had a dream.

When I was younger,
I played carefree.

When I was younger,
I ran after what I wanted.

XXIII. nuchthemerinal, adj.

I sit down at the dining table
and it's Sunday.

The weekend blurred
like trees on the highway.

I haven’t moved.
I can’t move.

XXIV. apple bee, n.

An ad on Instagram.
An open mic

at the indie bookshop
downtown.

A stinger
in my chest.

XXV. duskus, n.

The sky
becomes dark

as the inside
of the bookshop

as the owner
steps up to the mic.

XXVI. raconteur, n.

Someone with my face
walks onto the stage

when my name is called.
They explain their history with

the song “Over the Rainbow”
while fiddling with their trumpet’s valves.

XXVII. racketiness, n.

Each note
out of their horn,

a memory
of a past life:

clubs, festivals, concert halls
all across the country.

XXVIII. aptronym, n.

They don't keep
to a set tempo.

Notes ebb and flow
over heads and bookshelves

like grey waves
over sea stars in tide pools.

XXIX. queemly, adv.

They smirk,
signal the audience

with a flip
of their left hand.

Their voices join
in the chorus.

XXX. merry-go-round, n.

When the last note ends,
sweat drips down my face.

Applause, cheers,
smiling faces, tears.

It feels
like home.

XXXI. delph, n.

Trumpet case
on the kitchen counter.

Bright office lights.
A din of keystrokes.

Listen to Donald Byrd
on my drive home.