Bread and Circus of the Graveyard Shift

Two gasoline canisters clanging
sound a lot like crickets. Cigarillo embers
lonely headlights as heat climbs
disappointed lungs and lost
Barbie idols fasten themselves
for the ride. A masked man scuttles
from a John. There’s too much silence
here, thicker than overcooked gravy from
the breakfast shift. Generations old
is this stillborn twinkle, only alive
for dreadnaught, the night, a mired
wind ravaging sailboats, awake
only to drift—along with phantoms
of empty 40’s and worn out spoons,
they thirst after yesterday,
wake dreaming of strobe lights
and empty visions, the whisper
of dark mushroom flesh. We see
only redundant corpses,
and only in the graveyard do they howl;
as midnight phosphorous preaches 100% real
beef enchiladas, here lies the feast. A stolen mirage
crafted half-heartedly, as the world re-invents
a thousand of its own distractions
and we reap them.


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