We skipped school to get breakfast at the Burger King above the ravine. The river at its nadir ran so slowly it seemed to stand still. Sometimes it seemed to run in reverse. On the ravine’s steep banks were hollow trees you could climb inside and disappear into your new life, if only you knew how. The soul like a galaxy’s swirling arm. The parking lot above glittering like a scuffed CD.
Nothing Years of Therapy Can't Fix
The sky stayed black all day. Snow was a memory, memories were privatized, it turned out Reagan wasn’t dead after all and would probably never die. A giant spider was carrying people off into the woods one by one and everybody shrugged. School was deserted, I was sick and lost in the halls, it was the very first day of deer season and everyone got out their guns and cracked 1000 beers and agreed Jimi Hendrix was the greatest guitar player who ever lived.
Before he dies, John Keats melts into the upholstery of a Porsche. Here lies one whose name was writ in slush are his last words though no one is there to hear him. Yuppie scum squeegee his remains from the Porsche and mold him into a centerpiece. They regard it while eating chocolate strawberries before making love in gigantic oyster shells. Their children will be epitomes of health and beauty.