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Every time we kiss, my hair falls out


by Ryder Collins


Streetlights don't turn on/off suddenly; there's

no cell phone emoticon for a bald

spot. Magical realism only shows

in the switch from mall to town center. The roads

where kids hopscotch to the next fashion.

You and I look like an old Russian

battleship — rusted, the stone lions know; we

hobble and murmur some language that's disappeared/

disappearing. Kiosk or something. You say

do this, you say daddy, you say Potemkin —

foretelling a great waste of either lives

or oral sex. I'm not sure which yet,

but a stroller (omen?) comes hurtling by

 

& you want me

             

to run through the fountain.

 

You wanted me            to run through the fountain? I'm

in high leather boots; I'm talking many dead

cows here and I respect that, ya know. Big

props in the burbs to fallen bovines, grass

chewers, roof sheep/goats: it's oh so

pastoral. We comment on the lack of blood

or the lack of oil or boils or London

broil at the restaurant and I'm confused.

I remember maggoty tins of food:

solidarity or something. We cheers

to shampoo, petroleum, Hummers, rules.

Your face keeps changing with every sailor,

every cannon, every old lady's glasses

 

smashed;

 

you're sporting a beauty mole or a gas mask.

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