The Blade Runner soundtrack
is on a loop on a cracked open jukebox
in the wreckage of one of those nostalgia diners,
pretending its the fifties
when the whole world can’t remember
what they looked like.

Some bored kids from the high school
put that particular track on there
as a protest against the past
with a dose of the future
no one there would likely understand
at all.

The pastors walk out on Sunday
to empty halls but smell the cooking ribs
outside along with football games
turned up so loud you couldn’t get away.
They move on to see the parish
tailgating in the parking lot,
but after asking around
there were too many reasons
to sift through.

The demon in her room turned from
its wretched self into a mimic
of the poster on her wall.
A long dead samurai frozen on a hillside
where all the wind fell by him
far off past the edges of the frame.
It didn’t have a name so she just called it
Dyson and its burning horns left dark marks
on the ceiling.

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