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Monday, May 27, 2013

Questions for the President Prescription For America

Questions for the President Prescription For America

Might I suggest or may I suggest
a cigarette, Red Vines or Twizzlers?
Put or pull out method?
Method Man’s method, man?
Why are Polish men? When man lies
R Kelly Fiesta Remix (Dirty Remix)
dirty girl mud run sun mudfish
Fishy va-
lentine’s sayings for him or for her?
May I or can I
holla at ya?

Save Money. Live Better.

Save Money. Live Better.
for Jacob

4 p.m.
I unload
pallets and pallets at work.
Bombing down dusty aisles,
my ten-foot cardboard monsters,
at breakneck speeds of five mph,
scream with rusty wheels. Customers
freeze in terror, never get out of my damn
way. Departments: Chemicals pills
sporting good clothes
food crafts bedding 
auto electronic furniture.

7 p.m.
Racks and racks
of hanging apparel
delivered to a lady who
never appreciates a job
well done. Burnt backs
pushing their Sisyphusian carts
with honking car vultures
circling.

Midnight
I get off at one
o’clock on the dot
(no overtime, never over-
time) and time again
recycles, it's already
the next workday.

The sky is black, starless,
except for the humming white
fluorescent moon against
abyss. Literally starless––
a tarmac draping
over the lot, a wall over the mart.

1 a.m.
Every night we’re visited by
a coyote that will eat
out of your hand. My coworkers
named him “Jacob.” His head guides
his slim body toward and away
from me like the tides,
ears never stop pointing.
I don’t give him a name.
I don’t call him anything.

It needs to get away
from the emptiness
of a nighttime parking lot:
I want to lie in the dirt with
the coyote, let his fangs tear
at my jugular first, work
their way to my chest and stomach, turn
me and dirtied blood mud ground into one
pile that will never be discovered. Just me
and the coyote, rotting in a Californian chaparral
under a starry sky.

Sometimes I hear my name
on the radio and turn it off,
wait for a wild call that never comes.