they had came.
know how advil-gel capsules stretch
shift, tumble and burst in your
molars
like false poinsettias, pressure points of
lemon-honey
glyphosate. the bay windows
shriek outwards, scalloping and dutch boy
blue and vinyl cladding erupting with
red flesh, klaxons, a nine-volt charge
screaming through radio
frequencies from a unit grafted to the
dashboard of a
ford galaxie.
swing the tail. shift away from neutral. window pivot
points broken, free portage
for moths and agitated dandelion shrapnel
sticking, hardened by sweat and
wafting ballistol and leaky butane accelerant into
pellets, mace-and-flails
sinking into styrofoam, postage stamps, flannel-
fuzzed skin wired
in repeat, tacky and callused against state
lines, plastic spoons, esso
emblems.
jerry cans. crumpled franklins. freeway sundowns
marked with microwave dinners. men
linger, with heat-seeker’s eyes
and a pig’s tongue. sooner or later, the hypotheticals
start. suppose
we shimmied up a copperhead
spire. suppose we emptied
a matchbook. suppose we
mainlined irish cream, ethanol
and burnt vanilla
slicing, silting the momentum. suppose we
traded our joints for black tar-
spirits. suppose we played along.
suppose we laid still. on a trinitron, fallujah dust twists in two.
my voice cracks. retreats.
six years past, a
tec-nine slide scooped low over a melamine
tray, racked tight—yawned wide—buzzed
the cassette recorder, distorted the outline
of the old spice stick and ex-swimmer’s towel dangling
hooklike,
next to the shower
stall.
~ Antelope, Or.
2005.