Hurt Coin Locker

Stephen Lenehan

The athletic megapixels of your facetime

Are screaming pieces of you in a bag

that let all the cats out of always

And decompose to a diminished fifth.

I keep pretending that my pinstriped

Oxford is not a prison uniform

When rarely do the guns go off at night

But like dirt is matter out of place

Inside and outside

Are all on the same side.

Hummingbirds foreshadow a more accelerated epoch

Of intrusive fanzines and lackluster managerial staff

Preemptively charting flight paths

To mop up the feudal remnants

Lurking under the floorboards.

Sidewinders ricochet out the cowboy hats of a

Duel cachet sporting the reptilian likeness of gringos.

Q: So, you’re a lawyer? What kind of law do you do?

A: Oh, you know, moon law, stuff like that.

Status update: In a special economic zone

200 nautical miles offshore

King of the sea floor.

More indents will not make a dent

In any cop cars in the near future but

The aggravated pustule

Responsible for retiring

Obsolete bouts of enthusiasm

Will soon surrender to makeshift galleys

And concede collective bargaining rights by proxy.

Bone marrow donations and beach clean-ups

Both can and cannot make things better.

Spare rib over iron lung

Is the typecast of what is gender.

Nobody will like you

Unless you’re good at something.

Homelessness and mass extinctions are not your fault

Nor are they not your fault.

This is the dialectic in which we’ve spawned.

Cruising altitude negotiable.