Sightseeker: one page from a dog-eared journal
XX/XX/XX a thursday
i've forgotten where exactly
some no-name desert wash
folded in the arms of an arroyo perhaps
i recollect a cactus
sought by other sightseekers after
a door to the fourth popped open for a dime
and men who shun the nickelodeon
dose mystic tourists with fleshy brew
kamikaze color bombards startled rods
cortex visual aid ignited, core impact in:
T-5 arbitrary units of measure
honed steel grip cramps guts
expected projectile purge of spirits --
evil or otherwise -- thrown to thirsty dust
4
suspended slide forward into vacant space
tethered by one last ropy nerve
bungeeless plunge off the step snappy
32ft per second per second whack
3
thick walk through molasses grass
the saurasaur dewdroppedin andohfuck
Godhandle rends reality daily
refracted lightening from every angel
2
catch eyeful of impression
a swirly world awry, welcome
to the state-line of the psychonscience
1
~*
Copyright © 2001 Melisande Luna
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Trvth: the Amerikan Way
So, there it sat; truth, blacked in a puddle
of oily lies. Everything is fine, thank you.
Adore those sprats, sparkling children.
Pretend to enjoy wonderfully whiny company
and not to ache for flagged freedom.
Caked creamy skin once ivory laden
drapes in cheesy folds from thighs,
make-believe time, play dress-up in support hose.
And that rotted stench that rides
your husband's beery breath
as he rolls over and pumps you for 2 minutes,
oh yeah baby, pretend you dig that too.
Shark a smile at your boss,
tip a wave to the nabes,
come home and get zoned on cathode rays.
Everything is great in Anyville, America.
Life is good, now repeat your mantra.
Copyright © 2001 Melisande Luna
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A Migrant's Simple Story
Field-worked scars
of table grape toil
grace Abuela's joints;
arthritic rings worn
on browned hands.
Bent back and fingers
gnarled under hard labor
of freedom's promise.
Copyright © 2001 Melisande Luna
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