Unplugged phone lines hang like streamers
from the trees. Faces no one believes in
are carved into the woodwork.
Broken Christmas ornaments are eaten
like potato chips by cyborgs with their
automatic minds. The last family of foxes
finishes off the rabbits they caught
while hunting in the rain
and they know to make it out of this
they’ll probably have to learn to fucking fly.
Nothing out here wants to die even the skeleton
with the scythe and the ill fitting robe.
He just wants to play video games and smoke
tobacco from a pipe made out of one of his ribs.
It’s a different world when nothing
sings and all there is to listen for is more
wind against the cliff side and the ocean tide
that’s slowly sinking down.
Two sisters go from bookstore to ravaged bookstore
searching desperately for the one remaining time machine.
They dress the cuts on both their arms with bits of fabric
they tore off their mother’s coat and tie it tightly
over their forearms so their magic could begin to light the way.
They draw their circles on the marble floor as smoke
rotates revolving doors and though the dark envelopes them
a beam of light bends up the spiral stairs.