By AJ Urquidi
Looking to sell one souped-up nostalgia
with fuel-injected detachment from remorse.
Last chance to leave the eternal turnstile.
This papercut from a soundwave concept.
‘You have no idea how much I resent you.’
Too good to be true, your dearth was a crusher.
“Who the fuck is Heather?” Your guess is
as good as a remotely triggered mine.
Seasons three and four scraped us
from the underbelly of their cheap sneakers.
Last time I heard about goings-on in weird lands
I found little opportunity to concern myself.
This time feels not a fragment different. You
thoroughly rape your harvest when the season
is prime. Trapped in the eternal turnstile
but slightly comforted by jerky rotations.
Had I sister I would know where to keep her.
The back of my mind has vacancies.
Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets 