Ft Vending Machine (Collar 4)

26 May

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Ft Vending Machine

 

Collar 4:

 

There’s No Moving On

 

Yo Salieri,

maybe history did you wrong

or maybe you were an almost

Oscar winning prick

 

either way

 

History has always been mortal

just like the rest of us

 

we’re all corpses at some point

placed randomly or somewhat randomly

on the dartboard of a strip mall buffet table

on a sunny Sunday afternoon

 

They love: all you can eat macaroni

and pub tips

 

and we’ll love to play darts

when you love me

we’ll love to play darts

 

so don’t sweat it

ya sweaty tombstone

don’t sweat it

 

even though

everything’s always sweaty

 

everything’s always

the perfect hat that doesn’t fit me

 

everything’s missed field goals

followed by the possibility of touchdowns

 

followed by the fact that I was

goddamn certain I’d asked

Word’s Auto Correct to stop

fucking auto-correcting

me

 

but it refuses to obey orders

just like reality

 

just like that first time

I saw her

and how I unsuccessfully tried like hell

not to saw her

 

because I knew she could be

the end

of me

 

and for a long time she was

 

and always will be

 

but fuck,

you either lay down

or you spend the entire weekend

watching The Six Million Dollar Man Season 4

in a not-quite laying down/haven’t-given-up-yet-

only-semi-laid-down-like position

 

and as you know

I sometimes hate to lay down

and Season 4 of The Six Million Dollar Man

if beautiful!

 

so

you know,

no choice!

 

when every second

is choosing

 

I choose the latter

 

if by latter I mean beauty

 

I choose beauty

over Vaseline

 

wounded humanity

over total robotics

 

Instead of the steak

I choose the cow

 

So let us throw their goddamn

laser rifles

to the ground

 

Darling!

 

grab yr great dress

and follow me

down the hallway

past the locked doors

behind which

 

the politically savvy

sleep the dead sleep

of cheap tippers

 

and I will build you a fort

out of available vending machines

behind which

 

barricaded between

entombed Snickers bars

 

we can

make out

 

 

 

(part 4 of a four collared poem)

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