From “oh oh oh” to “oh no,” it’s not pretty, the reckoning that’s coming at me, bro. Zim prepares (in part) with writing practice i.e. readies for battle in these daily dimwit hailstorms. Damned if “we” do and damned if “we” don’t do violence. Fight back, you feckless dandelions, you fleurs du mal, like they say, heads always roll downhill. We’re on the business end of a beeless future in a present that loves nothing more than licking boots. Zim dispenses with puppet presidents, throws “bricks of love” at “bags of dicks,” looses desirous diary entries into the streets like crushed flyers. And now I’m “standing” “in a crowd,” bowing in murderous anonymity, picking up what she’s putting down. Visualize taking a box cutter to a beloved Mondrian. Visualize smushing king-makers with full-on bloody mouth kisses. A flock of uncompromising moms in my one good ear: “Who among you would sacrifice your cupcake for correct action?” I cry “the self miserly” quietly “untitled” in cruddy sunlight. Icing fingers. Crumbs at my feet. False Spring by Amie Zimmerman (Roof Books, 2026).
