By Clem Flowers
Set adrift on the rhythmic jangle of soon to be junked splendor awash in spilled sugar moonlight while I collapse into the bed on the whiteout section of the graveyard train as I spy the poplar trees racing on the 10 speed wind waving on all us tired eyes rounding third & heading home & neighboring wires of old telegraph poles catching every last drop of misery floating away on a lonnng curl of poisoned mulberry smoke that seems to linger in the sternum of the city where the factory stacks once stood vigil & ended up on the same path as steam engines, pointillism, & the dodo & I'm drifting off on a high tar strained piece of linguini that SkyMall had the nerve to call a "Comfort Supreme Pillow" surveying the passing scenery & wondering if anyone else notices the flowers on the cacti seem to all be flint grey & screaming.
Clem Flowers is a nonbinary bisexual living out near some mountains in the deserts of the American southwest with their wife and cat, trying to perfect making a homemade sweet potato fry.
Photo by Jason Thayer.