IT’S LIKE TEXAS CHAINSAW
MEETS ITSELF
America is fifty nations under film;
the human life is a chainsaw, a means
of seeing, disentangling all that movie
left on the cutting room floor
I’ve
always loved that moment when a
monster comes
crashing through the screen
itself,
the
fiend now, not
some blob seeping up from the floor,
but a living,
breathing thing set
loose
in the audience
their screams;
the mad rush to the exits
where some guy in glasses mumbles,
“this is where I came in” the pro-
jector’s eye pokes a hole into that
dark, folded along suburban night,
megaplex popcorn and corn syrup
underfoot
IT’S LIKE TEXAS CHAINSAW
MEETS GENERATION LIKE
I write to you from
the slurpy machine
called weather; anti-
influencer that I am,
sipping that cold,
sweet data stream &
awaiting your next
post
in the real
world, a pound of
cocaine’s still a pound
of cocaine; the chain-
saw is a like, insistent
virtual caress
foxholes
blooming in the late
winter night
“X or
Z, does it really
matter?”
IT’S LIKE TEXAS CHAINSAW
MEETS STRANGER THAN
FICTION
I’m still trying to decipher
that crow landing outside
the classroom, rat’s head
clutched in his beak. The
world shows itself to you in
funny ways.
Your voter’s
card arrives by mail, your
name now misspelled; a
new royal portrait, crown
swimming in slurry and
soccer scores delivered
to your inbox.
The chain-
saw is among these things.
Concrete light files through
neo-brutalist slits. Semi-
dystopia.
In time, a man
tells me the internet moves
faster than time itself. Some-
body’s gotta change their life.
