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It's Honey Boo Boo Night in America

by: Russell Jaffe

Pour yourself a tall glass of Windex and
let’s pregame on lawn furniture on the roof
watching RNC coverage on a rabbit ear extension cord pumpkin patch TV and hurricane coverage
on our broken screen’d iPhones.
And let’s toast the founding fathers.
And let’s toast french fries and landfills.
And let’s make our own unisex t-shirts with pie charts of unemployment growth and job
outsourcing rates and hours working vs. wages line graphs.
Is this a sad story?
Well let’s do all that and let’s do it today into tonight’s unemployment dreadnaught again and
again. Nearby planets am I right?
Is this a sad story?
I used to wake up looking at a someone who smiled cream curtain bedsheet alien mountain grainy
this-is-happenings before she opened her eyes. The apocalypse pageantry of the sweet. Her eyes.
Those telephone cord lashes. Those planet beacon selfish slit moons.
I cooked her breakfast and we watched TLC.
I fed the guinea pig spinach.
She called this giving the pig a spin.
Now the girl I am fucking tells me I look at her OKCupid profile too much and it makes her feel
weird.
You tell me
if it’s a sad story.

Star-Crossed Planisphere of my future-past and present unfixed movements:
Somewhere ‘twixt the great hands-over-crystal-ball folk quilt of the universe
I got clonked over the head by a giant astrolabe
because it’s 7 AM and I’ve been drinking.
I had to drive to the county fair to teach an important lesson about the USA or something like it. The tapwater tasted like keys where I picked up the van.
USA is a time a place a country. The sun takes it somewhat easy. Grain beard latitudes.
USA macaroni Christ. USA plasma screen in the Amish historical society house.
USA onion rings on a hot hat day. USA flea market tents. When there is no water dioramas of wayward families cluster around shadows instead.
Fiddle-playing children at the county fair.
One of the international writers called them like small angels in blue jeans.
Breathe in the gasoline.
I see the fisheye bulge of our pie dish atmospheric limits smoke the last of the road.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen the beautiful. If I had only learned more nothing.
My watery eyes are red and unclear.

What you mean to me. Your shovel eyelashes. Your deodorant under your t-shirt.
Red construction flags are still flags. The tower. Maybe for radio. Maybe for intergalactic lazy and selfish apologizing. Bra strap and tin can endless signal.
Soviet bloc something one time forgot about its acreage allotment in the USA I would never choose to call someone the fucked. I never and yet.
The girl I am fucking and I held hands and looked out of the industrial center. Smoke didn’t pour from where it shouldn’t have.
They wrap the turkeys in the bags right
after they come out of the plucker
she told me
stop trying to speak to me I
said
we look so
tired.
An owl hooted desperately somewhere in the parking garage. A chicken hawk’s eggs
fell in front of the convenience store. The college dumpster overflow’d with books and CD players.
Soy sauces and curdled milk crossed the no zone into their laser readers.
White paperwork always and discarded.
Lover! I beat my milky way into the crossfade halo of this red plastic cup
bottoms up
we’re in this to
get
her.