Je Suis Pablo Escobar

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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.

A Query for Elliot

mr. robot 3.jpg

With thanks to Mr. Robot

 

Pictured you peeled back from sunset, that shadow’s step

ahead of rusted tabby receding hairline, pulled taut across

 

square-tusks of rooftops, shivering loose all the dandruff

ain’t fit to be gold. Compose a glow holed up from daytime,

 

drumming notes from the underground, rapping angles at

keyboards to bring a satellite down. Thought you would’ve

 

tapped the telegraph, crunched bitrates of Oxycodone,

compressed clouds into conversation, until tugged at, then

 

dispersed by slapping paw. Instead, tail wag at the terminal,

slip under Hubble without a scratch or a claw. After all,

 

favor that orange crush of windowpane from empty-set

of boxes, preferring Amazon over analog directions posted

 

by the front door. Coiled upon asking price, what do you

whisper in when tickling blank-space of search engines?

 

Ordering kitty treats to rid yourself of mouse breath after

a kill?

K-Stew’s Dream Sequence

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“To realize that all your life,

all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain,

   it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream,

a dream that you had inside a locked room,

a dream about being a person.”

-Rust Cohle

True Detective

     

Kristen, who are you wearing tonight??

Amelia Earhardt.

 

And is that necklace Cartier??

Its OJ Simpson’s smashed up windshield

and a pair of gloves that don’t fit.

 

May I ask who your lovely companion is tonight??

A broken record I’ve made into a dinner plate.

Cold cocks me at the after-party, leaves

me for a new pair of jeans.

 

And any tips for the fans who might wanna do what you do someday??

It might sound a little backwards, but it’s like

when you want your cell phone to work right—

dress Amish.

My secret…

eat sheep’s brains to horde their powers.

Got my start gorging on a crash of rhinos, at least

that’s how I learned to fly.

You and the You Across from You… a self portrait

Self Portait of the Human Condition

 

 

You and the you across from you

devour the minutes like stopwatches

taming eyes at the recording apparatus,

we multiply.

 

With every play reanimate, however

hardly Nietzschean vampires siphoning gas tanks,

brown toothed and giddy

in the last orange hours of apocalypse.

 

But indeed, we the undead,

even before traffic lights

go black, before foraging WaWa

for canned beans by match light.

 

You and the you next to you

do not dwindle towards zero, instead

record and upload zombie self

from living room shelf before the world ends

ending the world.

Gnash back at the camera, your eyes explain

your teeth, a bear trap I didn’t know

would turn me into one of you.

 

But after all, nothing new,

not long ago convulsing hordes

avalanched the sidewalks with shuffle steps, window shopped,

broke nails on chopsticks

gnawing orange chicken,

grunts of approval ‘til next meal,

until we saw the sacred in cyber space.

 

Hallelujahs shook arcades of the fresh cathedral

with deposits digital from individuals gone underground,

upload passing notes on what it was to be separate,

absolute, existing alone.

But they echoed

And they echoed

And they echoed gnashing teeth

until you and the you across from you

devour the minutes like stopwatches taming eyes at the recording apparatus,

we multiply.

Future Primitive

Image

 

They promised us jet packs

instead all we got are these stupid phones.

Burn day light batteries by the soft glow

of our smug faces,

but if you need a burrito

I’m the unshowered oracle you have at home.

 

*Blip*

into a tv dream of fall cardigans, mock turtle,

gray stitch of evening wear perfect for a night on the town

as a nap on the couch. $200.00

if the commercial reminds you of a classier grandpa

 

instead of the drunk who became ancestor

refusing doctors a hack at his other foot.

 

And by god

where are the robots,

iron Neanderthals to do the laundry, crush dishes accidentally

with manacles for palms?

I fancied a future where families dressed

to the neon best

wrapped group hugs ‘round contraptions bawling sprockets:

adolescent circuitry at odds with robot law.

 

Instead, clothes still come in one fashion

per item, no shape shifting nanofibers tailored by our minds,

oh, but the success they’ve had

inducing automatons to cry.

 

Witness this by the odorless interface, conduit of cell phone towers

to touchscreens, celebrity retweets

ignite rafters of this open air mine.

 

Yowl and snivel,

sure, me too.

Grinds my gears by the eye sockets

like waking dreams totally recalled. Levi’s,

maybe Apple ads, unsolicited tender access touch my special place:

Memories of first kiss jpeg

renders a weep over adverts

pimping straight leg pairs of jeans.

…For Pop