Michigan Gothic.

- You ask your friend where he was born. He holds up his hand and points to a spot on his palm. “Oh, you’re from Grand Rapids,” you say. “No,” he replies, “look closer.” You do: there is a tiny house on his palm, with tiny parents waving up at you, asking if you’d like some lemonade. You aren’t thirsty.

- The coney island on the corner is open. You walk inside and order some gyros, then walk out for a cigarette, but find yourself in Flint. You go back inside, into the same coney island, then leave again. Now you’re in Grosse Pointe. It’s all the same coney island. Your gyros are getting cold.

- You’re driving through the Upper Peninsula, and stop for gas. The pump dispenses nothing but unrefined, crude oil. You enter the station, but the attendant only speaks ancient Cornish. A horn blows: the hunt begins.

- You cross 8 Mile and enter the city of Detroit. Your eyebrows are stolen before you travel fifty feet. Then your socks. Then your kidney. Eminem asks you if its pronounced “de-TROIT” or “DEE-troit.” You have no answer, and he hands you a can of Vernors. It tastes like road salt, and regret.

- Faygo. Its everywhere. You go into Meijer. The shelves are lined with Faygo. You go to school, and they serve Faygo for lunch. In the pipes of your house: Faygo. In your veins: Faygo. Moon Mist, if you’re not mistaken.