The Whole Booth
Prosperity is the ghost that haunts the phosphorescent
square of the voting booth, reeking of bubble-gum
cigarettes that taste like chalk. It hums a song
about the advantages of remaining celibate until marriage,
but it wears such low cut shirts...Don’t be troubled
by the transmission fluid smell pooling in your nostrils
as your own guts leak out; prosperity doesn’t know
the smell of true meat enough to bother you for yours.
Trust me. Your wallet and your heart are the only
crosses that matter when considering which box to tic,
which X to spot. Any lies will get you into the car
that promises an easy ride home. And in the trunk,
as the red oil smell of truth hits you, will you wonder
what brought you to this end? Or will you sulk
* * *
She models vacancy in her light blue eyes
perfectly framed by a face tanned almost orange,
hair golden and dead. I struggle to explain
while she struggles and doesn’t understand, and I see it,
the future of her, flailing towards understanding
and never quite reaching it.
The day before, another student confessed to me
overhearing this one, “she said your class is so easy
she doesn’t do anything and has an A.” The truth
is further down the alphabet. “I feel sorry for her,”
the student had said. “It must be hard knowing
that nobody likes you.”
* * *
The King of Split Ends
I’m not falling, but I can see
the ground rising like a hard
bed to kiss my cheek. I never
took the time to plant moss.
Don’t ask me for anything
today; I’m in a hurry to meet
tomorrow. The hair product
industry controls so much
of the economy; don’t question
it unless you want to live
with split ends. I never knew
how much I’d miss wanting
until I got everything. There’s
a demo playing every time I step
outside. There aren’t any vocals,
yet. I keep saying I’ll write some.
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