Noah Siela, 7/12

Fuck the Museum

23 scholars and the curator
wrestling for who gets to go
as Gil-Scott Heron to the faculty
Halloween party and one guy,
unwatched on the first floor,
painting a smoldering DeLorean
into a very famous work of art.
They have set up a display
of broken tools: ball peens
hammered flat headbutting
one another; a bronzed,
dented shovel used to
clean up the glue-thick mess
of the utopian dead leaning
in the corner; an encased and
crack-handled pick-ax
found alone in a big-bellied
environment that eroded to dots
and was taken forever by a
lunge of rolling creek foam
while the folksy population,
normally hardwired to high-fence
their outbursts, begged loud
for mercy to nothing in particular.
Temp to Hire

Interviewer: If hired,
what do you think
would be the biggest strength
you’d bring to the company?
Me: I fuck like a stroke victim
I said, looking over
her head into the parking lot
to watch a fat sparrow
swoop down to grab
the wrong crumb, hop
around for a bit in sharp glints
of a world shattered solid.
I didn’t get the job
and after they led me
from the building
I went home and hacked
all my shade trees to stumps,
walked downtown in a cold breeze
of gold dust exhaled
from a million last breaths
to listen to all the bland deals
happening in tall buildings
explode to hot in half-shadow,
antebellum heartwrench everywhere
tacked tight in pendant form
to the lapels of the gray-haired booming
while my bones snapped loud
under the weight of  bronzing skin
like bored ghosts cracking
ball bats against purgatory walls,
just an ex-fullback in 3-point stance
letting loose copper-tin tears,
fact-cuddling plot points
in the fable of me surviving a mauling.

Bookmobile

The woman I love
has to be thinking about
genocide during handjobs.
Causing it, fixing it…I don’t know.
This post-orgasm morning is
forcing new colors and I can hear
the neighbors, wild lions,
cough down their roars
hauling their children by the scruff
to preschool, and even the swarms
of birds are bureaucratic
flapping over the top of raccoon-raided
pheasant nests or dog-gnawed squirrel bones.
The cities of geometry are a fever like rage,
but the killing sticks are being chipped
into mulch to soften the crash-down
of a billion-band rainbow
interjecting into a drone attack where
a man, eating concussion,
spins like a Plains tornado into a bookmobile,
lays unlimbed and bleeding to death
on a pile of John Grisham,
of true crime, of donated spines.

Promote. Poetry.
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