Disappearing Alan Smithee

Utah 2005 0630 10091711 - Comb Ridge - Fish Mouth Cave - Hands on wall

When I’m low

I’m binge watching

the ticker tape of

closing credits only.

I don’t have to tell you, but

everything ends the same.

 

I pretend

I’m in the movies, but

just the scriptwriter,

just the sound guy,

better yet, fed up director

revelation left

on the cutting room floor.

 

When I’m low

sop ink up from paper,

backspace the subtitles,

reuse old taglines to the show.

That racket of anvils—

after lunch like Hannibal

sacking the score.

 

Hole up in wardrobe,

better yet, throw out

those costumes, rub out

my thumbprints then walk out

that door. Scrub graffiti off

the gargoyles, my address

from curbside, delete

all my profiles, text

both of my parents—

I renounce my tickets to the show.

 

When I’m low

host reunions in my apartment

where dead ancestors squat silent,

passing secrets in the living room,

something ‘bout

times before the internet,

but what it is

Grandpa won’t say.

 

You can hear him in

the woodshed, returning

digital back to video, cellulose

reels to flash lamps, canvas

back to cave walls—

drowning buffalo

in too many coats of paint.

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Je Suis Pablo Escobar

pablo-escobar-mugshot-narcos-tv-show-replica-prop-framed-print-gift-medellin-art-abf0246d56f6dd7ed7421c8f0ce223b0

With thanks to Narcos

Dodge Caravans pinch sunsets of pink gulf coasts

closer. So crawls traffic, Medellin to Pensacola—

on all fours. Drift of pickup trucks drag South Pole

equator-bound, while detectives echo-locate

cell phones atop alkaline canopies—gash

of jet fuel tugs a bow over drug-lord’s

last words to mama. Turnt

 

this Jungle Book to snow showers, ice

capades divot in purple light of nightclub floor. Disco balls

huffed up, cut with credit cards down to latitudes—

Javier tripping refugee glass

 

distending in champagne lounge door. His

brown face crawling back to me across

Miami coffee tables, Chevy tire-tracks

like lines of TV static

in the storm.