June-Bell had never seen a killing floor,
but she had heard stories. Something about monstrous cousins
from that town on the other side of the withered mountains.

A brother with great taste in eyeliner
and blood all over the money that’s kept him from getting caught.
Since that grocery store closed down for reasons
that will curse the gambling halls and theatrical temples forever.

Her boyfriend, fiancé on the weekends,
kisses the hand that throws dozens of tiny pebbles
against the desolation that serves as a window
between her small bedroom. And the wide world of sport
of eyes shot to beautiful, unmanageable pieces.

They’re going to run away to Chicago,
or they may look for work in Nevada.

The bad dreams are going to end,
and those three pinball machines are going to stop
following them around.

He’s going to make that shameless money.
Broken cars for sale could vote a crooked banker
into public office by nightfall around here.

Problem is that half are owned by jealous husbands,
and the other half by jealous wives.

We won’t say who has been degrading who,
or if it’s January 1st consent firing both guns in the air
to get January 2nd lament to stop its sissy crying thing.

Ideas do not plead for their lives here.
They either put up,
or never open their mouths to begin with.

You are not going to hear them on August evenings,
and they will not pull you out of the snow
breaking all kinds of lovers backs in late-October.

She prays more than he ever will,
and even the old women, who drink Wild Turkey
and hate being able to see the future,
know that it would be a waste of time to tell him
that it might be time for a change sometime soon.

These kids are left to their own devices.
No one stops them from cutting history class,
and no one tells her that being pregnant at nineteen
is a death sentence for heart patients.

Let ‘em stay out all night.
Let ‘em smoke,
and fuck their painted brains out.

12/02/2011

Posted on 12/02/2011
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