TAPED TO THE LOCALLY owned bookstore's a petition against The Patriot Act. Think of how hopeful I've been for this social entity: USA. There's a thin edge between the known and unknown, and the self's that limit stretched between. Lift your feet, get moving. One step after another. Untangle thickets of syntax. Slash and burn the semantic spins.
Bad Thing
lives here.
He's hunting
fresh meat
without
word care.
The ground's unclean. It receives empty, wordless shells. Men in machines cut into the street. One holds a sign above a hole: "Stop." He turns it and I read, "Slow." Proceed with caution, catching an eye, disheveled hair in my rear-view mirror. My face, a quick fragmented glimpse, comes out among jack hammers and oak trees. A plastic bag tangles in yellow lantana. Later, pour a cold glass of beer. Obey decayed appetites like memories inherited genetically, not lived. Shadow creatures live here, like beasts from a zombie movie stalking red dusk highways.