Bike, Parking Lot Behind the Thrift Store Plaza

  Pedal and prong’s antler in working order all. Fissured asphalt patches a desert less fissured than the older asphalt underneath. But elsewhere. One Ash Wednesday a priest marked us with commas, lined up we were a long pause. In the dark knocked over pylons look like knocked over cats, trucks, school busses sleep ass to ass in a corner, cattle. Men still work the lit loading docks as you circle, endless Led Zeppelin B-sides in the brown room of your sleep paralysis. Grass and pistons. In parking lots the sky is most crushing, says Barthes. Days of green chameleons and dumb giant fridges gutted for copper, comma comma comma comma sparks from the burr grinder under the truck chassis fan. Knuckled sky that starlets follow through. It’s seat leather, motion sensor, backpack. Grass and pistons. Lot pushes out to lots more, you’re on its—what’s the opposite  of magic?—carpet. In death we remember the spiders twisting up hard candy wrappers. People and cars touching themselves in life’s far away porn.