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.