Not Through Birds, Not Through Fire, but Only In Participating Stores

by June 22, 2024 0 comments

Sometimes the therapy dogs bark at the carpet
thinking it wants to pick a fight,
drunk with tears of cheap Lenovos,
hinges moaning ever so sweetly and sultry,
barrage to push back the marching obelisk
that hungers for our progeny.
tales ended,
forms lended,
for matters,
full mattress
for sale in the balconies of the tower,
the tower that sucks on your libido.

When was your last slice of the free time cake?
free from future tense labor
free from muscle memory
free from music on your favorite platform
free from technicolor fabrics
free from static caressing your spleen.

Because of restrictions, we can only show you
a small image of this artwork etched in oxide
as the bridges that lead you outside the city
bend slightly to the sun.

Blessed are the low income poets;
theirs is the kingdom of the skies,
and suburb parks
and barbershops
and pornodomes
and Irish pubs
in dreams before work.

My favorites are replicas of establishments
where you have to keep quiet before the phantoms
of the collective unconscious tap their spoons
and remind us to leave.

Then you take the wheel;
we scour drive-throughs for midnight collectibles.
Sol de madrugada que besa tus alas,
La Revolución de Emiliano Zapata
suena en cassette mientras se desintegra
en fumarolas que traicionan al viento.

There´s Sonia, and Fredo, and Margaret.
There is no manager in the heavens,
There are no customers in line.
We park the truck next to the drive-thru window
And we leave the passenger door open
For our child-like doppelgangers
Seeking shelter from the Titans.

They bring out the black bag from the back
Of the store that made it past the inspectors,
And they lay him out on the lobby table,
And the alien in the body bag still dances
To the flow of the song still stuck in my head.

My baby forgot that the rocks can also
sing a song of love*

Fredo takes the boxcutter and slices the chest,
The creaking is not unlike the crickets
Dashing to die underneath our footsteps
While we waited for your dad after the Slayer show.
The oozing slime smells like chlorine and sunscreen,
The glitter stains the tips of your hair and skirt.
Sonia pulls apart the ribcage
And takes out the bladder with both hands.
Margaret takes the scissors
And opens an incision in the shape of a triangle.

Fredo gets a titanium spinning top
That no one else ever gets to touch,
Margaret gets an origami unicorn
That glistens in her hallway every night,
Sonia gets an MP3 player full of cumbias
That will keep playing as the cities burn.

You and I get a strip of booth photographs
Portraying us, fading to closing credit songs in French.
I wake up empty handed and impossibly late to work.

* lyrics from “Nasty Sex” by the Mexican rock band La Revolución de Emiliano Zapata.

editors note:

No money back guarantee when a shopping experience like this is priceless. – mh clay

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