fake christmastree farms (self-portrait at 30)

in this post-Ratt paradigm, my ends are not out
for the tie that binds. my personal brand is a buzzard losing
its balance on a megachurch billboard, and then forgetting to fly;
grownup scene-kids do not whisper “he gets things done.”
I’m daydreaming of marrying for tax purposes, office birthdays,
broken rockingchairs on the moon. and my nightmares won’t even
start. it’s just such a clean-lined obscene: the funeral-home logo
larger than the obituary itself; the train-split labs left the same
empty color as the tracks. and still somehow “Uptown Girl,”
recurring like a ghost-barge across this, my one wild life. oh did you
finish the Bible? did you like it?
I once ran a route but then didn’t
come back. I need to ask you if I’m open.

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