HeyJaredPOETS FLY COACH
observations on language, love and long distance from a queer poet abroad in America.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 2
- Latest publication
- Sep 22, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 22, 2026
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WHAT I MISS (opens the original)
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I miss figuring it out.I miss believing in the internetNot feeling hunted by it.I miss knowing that someone’s writing is their own.I miss the innocence of en dashes.I miss people forgetting my birthdayBecause there were no such things as scheduled reminders.I miss admiring a well-worded email.I miss being thrilled and gutted by artWithout questioning who made it.I miss when my dad’s friend Claude was a guy with a goateeAnd a hell of a life story.<a class="image-link image2 is-viewable-img" href=
The lies that flowers tell. (opens the original)
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There’s a woman who sells flowers by the train tracks at night.She sets up a small stand just outside the platform, a hot pink beach umbrella with TROPICAL BREEZE scrawled across it.It’s a jaunty middle finger to the relentless winter that’s set into the bones of the city.Every night, from 5pm, she stands ready to catch commuters as they’re shaken like loose teeth from the mouth of huffing oily-faced trains.This station in particular is the worst in the city – full of risky shadows and a single
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