plastic I
tonight while i cook
i look into
hannah’s faded face
with her flaking fingers
she clings onto that
microphone full of grit
and glamor
- so the critics say
she’s getting old now
the flowery spotlight
drowns the echoes of
female essence floating
through her clothes
she’s a singer now
my dad told me once that
yesterday’s heroes only
eat the bread that
certain slivers
of society bake
in their unconscious oven
i wash the dishes and
my hands graze hannah’s
supple neck and muffle
her laminated lips
perhaps it’s time i buy
a new radio with
a round volume dial
that can cloak the chime
of adolescent deejays
and allow me to sleep
for a few more minutes
* * *
plastic II
he stood in the store
her plastic arms
baking under
the neon breath
of color and customers
her poise is natural
the eyes soak in the clammy fingers
that slice each benjamin out
of their iron wallets
she stands as a model
almost
except for the giddy boys
they reach beneath
her copper eyes and wrestle
the wrinkles in her speech
when the shop is silent
she is bathed in the dark
treacle of ghosts
the soda soft light falls
onto her hair and pries a laugh
out of her pixel thin lips
at night she is still there
her shoulders are the scaffolding
we use to build paper pyramids
of gleaming gadgets
she will only smile at us
once we’ve exhausted our
flavorant filled bodies
still digesting more mounds
of cardboard coffee
we’ll sit by
that same fountain outside
with its necklace of birds
its giddy sun dancing in the
spurts of water
and feel our skin become
warm again
PhilosopherPoet
