Best-Selling Skies
We will fight for the literary
Here we are Just we two Dreaming of shapes in the mushroom clouds As a closed-circuit sun sets The newspaper sky an almost-sepia reminder Of days when dreaming was allowed
Nearby A cemented-in river chokes And weeds poke spindly stalks Through cracks in the great asphalt plains
We listen, my head on your shoulder, To sclerotic tones of the machines A sickly, auto-tuned soundtrack To our used-to-be lives
The last grain of rust falls And the hourglass groans And now, the fleeting moment When the great gear in the sky turns, Flipping tissue paper day To a flat, starless night without end A black book jacket summarizing Our struggle Wraps its arms around our Best-selling story Found on YA Dystopian shelves
Literary fiction is not dead We are We are all asleep
But in some ways The nights here are the brightest They’ve taken our stars away But neuroelectricity cannot be throttled
Under blind cover of reality TV fade-to-black’s We’ll write poems in our minds Until the fibers of our hearts grow weak We’ll hum together In silent chorus And dance so still they’ll never know That hot blood runs, illegal, Through our veins
And in the morning We’ll goose step Like good little boys and girls again
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