She says she’s never been anywhere, and
kicks the pebbles as if to kill them with her
sandals. Old tools, like belt sanders, absorb
the entropy of dying neighborhoods like
black holes eating up light.
The drugs dissolve her sight like the sugar
in their coffee mugs making everything
collapse like poorly stacked cards.
Breaking windows for food is becoming
an art in the middle of the West where crops
surround the roadways like they own them.
Straight answers about simple things
are the burning plastic in the fire.
It licks the walls around it, until they melt,
and starts to drip like all the wishes
in the world.
Teleporting Typewriter 