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Trout Fishing in Amerikkka (After Everything Went Sideways) The old creek still follows me home. It does not know where I live, but it insists anyway. Once, this creek was written about politely. Now it is written about inaccurately. The trout inside it are demented—not metaphorically, but administratively. They have lost their paperwork. One trout believes it is a mailbox. Another trout waits for a bus that never arrives. A third trout has memorized several patriotic slogans and repeats them to rocks that pretend not to hear. I went trout fishing but caught a receipt from 1974. It said Paid in Full and smelled like mildew and regret. The creek apologized for this and then immediately denied everything. A man appeared on the bank wearing boots but no reason. He explained that the trout were once sane, before being educated. Now they speak only in fragments: slogans, weather forecasts, half-remembered love letters addressed to nobody. One trout asked me if freedom could be returned for store credit. The creek flows backward on Tuesdays. On Wednesdays it files complaints. On Sundays it listens to itself and weeps quietly into its own reflection, which looks older than it should. I followed the creek home, but my home followed the creek instead. We met halfway and pretended not to recognize each other. This is common here. I tried to fish, but the trout fished me. They examined my pockets, shook their heads, and threw me back onto the bank. One trout stamped my forehead TEMPORARY. Another trout wrote a short novel about my shoes and immediately forgot it. By evening, the creek had become a long sentence with no verb. The trout lay in it like punctuation marks arguing about meaning. I sat down and joined them. We agreed nothing was resolved, which felt like success. When I finally left, the creek followed me a little farther than usual, just to be sure.
The old creek still follows me home.
It does not know where I live, but it insists anyway.
Once, this creek was written about politely. Now it is written about inaccurately. The trout inside it are demented—not metaphorically, but administratively. They have lost their paperwork. One trout believes it is a mailbox. Another trout waits for a bus that never arrives. A third trout has memorized several patriotic slogans and repeats them to rocks that pretend not to hear.
I went trout fishing but caught a receipt from 1974. It said Paid in Full and smelled like mildew and regret. The creek apologized for this and then immediately denied everything.
A man appeared on the bank wearing boots but no reason. He explained that the trout were once sane, before being educated. Now they speak only in fragments: slogans, weather forecasts, half-remembered love letters addressed to nobody. One trout asked me if freedom could be returned for store credit.
The creek flows backward on Tuesdays. On Wednesdays it files complaints. On Sundays it listens to itself and weeps quietly into its own reflection, which looks older than it should.
I followed the creek home, but my home followed the creek instead. We met halfway and pretended not to recognize each other. This is common here.
I tried to fish, but the trout fished me. They examined my pockets, shook their heads, and threw me back onto the bank. One trout stamped my forehead TEMPORARY. Another trout wrote a short novel about my shoes and immediately forgot it.
By evening, the creek had become a long sentence with no verb. The trout lay in it like punctuation marks arguing about meaning. I sat down and joined them. We agreed nothing was resolved, which felt like success.
When I finally left, the creek followed me a little farther than usual, just to be sure.
