The List

They drink of dirty pools, without reflection. Scattered refuse layout upon the empty lot, snacks and cups and straws, drawn between two worlds, instruments of a world hungering. The little bird rests on the shopping cart, thinking of all the things its needs to buy, a wife, a car, a foaming latte, some smack, ballistic missiles, vintage clothes, a tear stained memory, a remedy for the parody of reality watching itself watch itself on little TVs, tearing their flesh from their masks, revealing the face of a child, swaddled in fear and denial, as the twirling mobile of the seven sins dangles within their grasp, and finally a can of ready made worms. If a little bird has so much it needs, to fill its little belly, than I wonder how much we shall need to fill our own.

-Josh Fleming


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