Silicon Valley, in the Backseat of a Tesla

By Carson Wolfe

stuck between two Texans

who can’t believe I don’t know

how blockchain works.

I am always around men

who know more than I do:

the professor of engineering

who said I had no business

homeschooling my daughter

if I don’t understand geometry.

Lectured about the lubrication

of my engine. In a festival yurt,

my grey aura, my big ego

which I must learn to transcend.

I came to San Jose for Pride,

but my couchsurfing host

had a spare ticket to the launch

of a secretary app named after

a woman. How quickly I ditched

the queers to party with men

old enough to be my fathers.

I always end up back here.

Which one of them is the wealthiest?

Which one of them can save me?

Strange, to barter with the idea

of myself in a floral apron,

floating across one of their ranches—

I’d never have to think

about bitcoin. Soon, they say,

this car will drive itself.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2025)