okay, believe the hype. 

Riley Mac has delivered us an ode to Midatlantic faggotry. in a particularly tight collection of disemboweled desire poems – for drugs, penance, and pussy – 

Mac reminds me I’m an addict. and of a few other things.

reminder: god is dead

reminder: riley, you’re not

fellas is it weird if I print out the stanza above, cross out the author’s name, and write mine instead? I doubt Riley would mind. if there’s one thing I intuit about Riley as a writer, it’s that she’s generous. her language has a certain refined scruffiness… I mean: hand wrapped tight around the breast of your skull/ biting the pink pith of your nails…? I could say something about the interplay of accessibility of language and the imagery of a practiced poet, but I think you can figure out for yourself that Riley is smart, and not in an annoying way. she’s just “with her fucking bitches and [they’re] all gay.” simple as. 

on the topic of g*d, Riley nails devout irreverence. for someone writing about two hot dogs and three holes, her poems are almost baroque. as an observing ex-Catholic myself, I’m eating up the self-harm as religion concept. I don’t believe in tender as a word, but there are a few moments which are, in earnest, holy. I’m thinking particularly of the piece, “the drugs don’t love me like you do.” this poem is thick with feeling. the hesitation marks are a wonder… yeah, mine are, too. this is the passage that really gets me, though:

i don’t believe in life beyond

but when i dream my nini makes my bed

licks her finger

wipes the powder from my nose speechless says

vicks will make it better my treasure

this book did for me what my gender studies college minor didn’t… spit out the butch/femme dynamic and then lap it back up and swallow it whole. I think Riley knows this: there’s a sweet smugness in giggling like a faggot in heat. the WANT of the poems is like the sexy, lesbiany version of The Body Keeps the Score. fucking you up but not in a trauma way. staying the night, buying your coffee in the morning. Riley is the OG wifeguy, and chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just transmutated:

if i’m the boy i don’t care how

much you make. i’ll pay

because i’m the boy

there’s definitely something to be said for the old service keeps you sober adage as a top anthem. something else to be said for the fact that neti pots can be as toxic as coke. or that huffing a dog’s frito paw is the ultimate nose drug graduation. Mac’s book ends with a totally batshit voicemail transcript where Unknown is telling her she’s the “fuckin’ most insane person [they’ve] ever met..”

…and to be honest, I kind of agree (non-derogatory). 

you’ll want to get in this car. 

In This Car by Riley Mac, Everybody Press (2024), $17 on Everybody Press.