a
hickory
amulet
melted
to
outlaw
slop
hangs
youthfully
in its
shadows,
crooking
tastefully
per the
cult
fashion
of
loathing.
its
jolly
viscous
throat
squeezes
its way
through
an
old
radio
in the
emptied
basement
of
your
garage.
no one
hears
the
signal,
the
beautiful
static
hum
that
wastes
itself
in the
sponge
carpet.
loitering
under
your
animal
cage
the
dictionaries
and the
phone books
and the
unwritten
accounts
of
your
milliseconds
wait
for
you.