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
you're sporting a beauty mole or a gas mask.
All rights reserved.
For Sergei Eisenstein. Forthcoming in my chapbook, Orpheus on toast.