DRAMAMINE, ORANGES, AND COKE IN A PLASTIC CUP

oooooooooooooooooooo(at 100 Center, Mishawaka, Indiana)

There isn’t anything less animated than the years,
this quarter-panel rust and the fake wood paneling. Riding
her bike down the block my kid thinks she might blow
a few select heads to pieces. She worries too much about sharing.
Let the conspiracies of network autonomy bleed consequence,
flood of cerulean zombies, the vegetable grease paint,
daggers left strapped under the box springs, ice piled near the cold
oootraps.
The pliers go with the knife, subsets of nutrition . . .
There is a building full of guns along Ironwood Road.
There was a building full of guns along Ironwood Road, two
ooomannequins
visible through the black windows.
It’s inconceivable to me, the way they take out the entire jaw
then scrape out the cancer while the eyes keep staring.
She’s quite keen to listen to her bike wheels spin. Anorexic and
ooonaked,
walking the black metal, my girl’s not going to die while it can’t even
bleed in that library.