460 Readings | 2 Ratings

Air Jordans of Dialect

Air Jordans of dialect hang

misunderstood low on the shit-eating powerline


sagged enough to almost rub

the roof of the beating-the-light U-Haul.


I’ve spent so much time this month

wondering if the grinding in my brakes


has become worse or if I’m just noticing things more,

the air in my work elevator not just smelling


of the basement cafe’s onions, but smelling

of the basement cafe’s red onions. The music


always loud. The rubbery auricle yawns awake

to localize the kind-of warbling being sledged


somewhere south of at least the dishwasher,

thread count rumble strips at the fingerprints


sliding to throw the sheets off to go investigate

the tin tumbleweed rolling liberal across late-night laminate.


Lately northbound on the rattler of the JFX

I can hear them counting minutes at City Jail,


wind-dried seconds ticking up,

ticking out useless as dodging thunder,


channeling mercy through bail-banned meditation,

each tally a plea hammering flat


the metallic cud of penance, strike after strike

making the line-sitting blackbirds flexed as a voyeur.

Posted 03/06/14
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