Pocket Citizen, 2011

“Make sure your asshole’s clean,” the old man says, and the young man wonders what that means. Crippled adults, bent like beer cans, hold the fort and take turns running the vacuum. Living at home, eating off ashtrays, anal beads rosary bedtime story. A one-way ticket to Gotham where dancers reside on museum walls and cocks get sucked at the overbaked piers, in the shadows of day or night. Venice answers the distress call but burns the skin of the Irish. The motorcade crashes in bed, repeat. Bodies pile up while children sleep at the wheel. The move is on but for the snags of dust and purpose. Berlin is a vault where the rubies in his veins forever remain. His estate is a photo of a ventriloquist’s doll leaning against a wall under a picture of Rimbaud.

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