Placards assert the rules, sola scriptura:
these are the limits of humanity,
what is a whom and who are a they.
’Mericans, people of bright bigotry and light,
your dusty heaven assured, this Inland Empire,
this shithole, thiswhateverthefuckyoucallit,
dessicate orange groves—
your gravel engine can’t hold an idle
and the scar is turned over and sent back.
Which state do you think you’re in and for how long?
This goddamned town blisters back sense
bellicist and dry, caking your shoe tops—
it’s not the first time there were dumb animals here.
The water sliding slick from your car and your other
car and your other car, from your headless lawn
to the light crack in the asphalt where the riachuelo
used to run, a finger in the eye of the real and the real—
one-hundred thousand head pitching at right angles to everything.
Mariachi by Robb McDonough
