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Timothy Brown Mar 2014
Rinse
Repeat
A simple man, trapped by society,
Raised to feel indebted to his family
His fantasy is printed and framed
Above the job's lobby. A beautiful
Scene of the mountains in Nagasaki.
The clear air clears the clouds
Of the the solvent factory
So he sits and stares
Ever unsure of his trajectory.
Rinse
Repeat
The quality of his life is priced
At $4.50. If he can't get his fix
Of burritos and churro sticks,
His world turns to bricks.
His grip slips.
The slight weight shift on his hips
Strips his exuberant demeanor
Like a lunar eclipse.
Rinse
Repeat
When he tries to adlib the script,
Life and love kicks him in the intelligence.
His happiness doesn't take precedence
Over the dead presidents he needs
To keep his residence. It's evident
In his directionless aggressiveness,
He feels irrelevant to his existence.
So, he slows the pistons of his brilliance.
Rinse
Repeat
His silence has made him forget his presence
He's become convinced that washing metal prints
Isn't against his will. That the fulfill-
Ment of another's vision is the pill
To his sickness. Like the use of litmus
Will heal his mental limpness
Between 9 and 5. The only thoughts
He completes are *rinse
and *repeat
© March 11th, 2014 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
Emma Jan 2018
I no longer resemble the skin I wish to be in
And I am neither disappointed or pleased
Jonathan Moya May 15
The empty lot of the abandoned car dealership
is overrun with dandelions, thistles, and sticker weeds.

On the right is a Baptist church standing
sternly against the invasive plants.  

The ministry’s gardener sprays Roundup
on the weaker creepers while his assistant
uses a torch on the deeply rooted ones.  

On the left is a BBQ specializing in Nashville Hot Chicken.  

Congregants fill the abandoned spaces on Sundays,
parking in every white-lined spot.  

On weekdays, the meat, pork, and poultry adherents
occupy the fringes of the cracked tarmac.

Saturdays are the days for the wildflowers to bloom,
the sticker weeds to cling to the cuffs of children’s pants,
and the hindquarters of every sniffing dog.

Church festival days were the time for the lot to be filled
with popcorn, churro, and taco carts-
ring toss, balloon pop, and fish bowl toss booths-
a bounce house, and the heroes of the Bible
obstacle course for the children.

Halloween week was the one time the BBQ joint
had the lot to itself. It erected a tent of horror
filled with demons, bedsheet ghosts, and demented chainsaw-wielding dwarves. The finale featured
the patrons being strapped to an altar and exorcised
by a defrocked priest and ******* clad nuns.

The other scary ride was the tunnel of love and marriage.  Couples were faux-married by a maniacal judge and,
by the end, were divorced by the jurist’s serial killer twin. What happened in between the nondisclosure agreements everyone signed kept it all private and secret.

Since the horror house made a lot of money and the church received a large sponsor donation,    
the deacons ignored the false sins and degradations.
  
Anyway, by Monday, the altar was gone,  
the neon horror tent collapsed and  
the sticker weeds reclaimed their corners,  
waiting for the next act.

Most days, I drive past it all—the sermons,
the spice rub, the ghost  dealership, the exorcisms,  
and I wonder if this patch of cracked asphalt  
knows what it is. Or if it even matters.

But nothing stops the dandelions from
dancing in the breeze and car exhaust air,
singing their minor chord hallelujahs to life.
        
On Sundays the faithful return to their pulpits.
By Fridays, the altar is a karaoke stage,  
with the pastor belting out “Highway to Hell”  
between deep-fried sermons.

And then lunch at the BBQ on the other side.
Jay earnest May 2018
highly evolved

highly advanced

16 cents in the pants  --  at the laundromat --  
with a taco   from   Jorje's

pinanpple
soda
and a churro.

   2 crows staring at you.

someone going on about the 'poison'.

''I HAVE A TUMOR''

and     creak your mouth  in general sadness.    washed hands in the grate outside  behind the lot behind the 2 ft  statue   of a civil leader.


backbending,
trying to lick yourself,
and succeeding.

up to 30 pull ups -- when the average man can't do one,  nice.


cold fingers
space heater

darts at the board.


sexless,-
******* 16 times--

dating profiles
half-open smile
sultry
eyes

3 toes
amputated ,  one in the box,  one for Christmas,  one for new year,  and one for now.


I  pull myself *****.

You shield yourself.

you  walk out.

you   kiss     the dead man ,  after  he succumbs to his afflction.

you provide the warmth.

you read  a magazine.


you   put on a   flowery dress.


you  call up   your   mother.


you dance in the afternoon.


you  rise with the
sun

— The End —