lick the hot sauce…


Your Ruff Collar, My Millstone

We live under the heat dome. 

I see you across the barren parklet. 
You are eating bits of soft pink babies. 


My hair wilts.  
Your curls frizz. 

I lick the hot sauce off my fingers. 
You yell that you are an arriviste. 

I scream that I was once part of the noblesse oblige and waved banderitas.

You warble an Edith Piaf song.
I huff gas out of a brown paper bag.

You sing two registers too low. 
My viscera gurgles. I pee my pants where I stand — mud puddles form around my feet. 

Tomorrow you will sign away your inalienable rights for a used 78 rpm record of “Thee Infanticide Blues.” 
I will strum The Hits of the Borscht Belt Songbook tonight on my ukulele.

The gloaming hour.

I leave a minute after you do. 

You to your elevator shaft. 
Me to my abandoned mine. 

Dark. Wasteland.

We may meet again next year.


“Trump is only the most visible symptom of a disease that has long been sickening the country’s blood — a rapidly metastasizing tumor of inequality, hyper-militarism, racism, surveillance, and fear that we might as well go ahead and diagnose as terminal-stage capitalism.”

— Mark O’Connell / Notes from an Apocalypse

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s