this place is dead.
it fell down with me into the velvet soil of a fresh-dug grave.
the wisps of faces from their glory days
where their nuclear shadows burned in time
on concrete walls; you see them in their
jalopies, fretting over marlboro reds
they got by fisting pennies into the coinstar, what a jackpot, and
where to put their name in goblin spray paint tonight at 2am? ask H-i-m.
they say he only
i see them like ants shuttling home their
crumpled friends on twisted backs.
this place is like an amusement park,
except the amusements here
are people’s lives.
perhaps a haunted house.
it’s the grey toxic place where you couldn’t hold it anymore,
everything evaporating, everything broke, everyone —
an american nightmare.
the next stop not for another 40 miles. same
shit food, same gas station H-e was at, same
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