Peter Spagnuolo

I just wanted to ride the thing, not toilcurbside, wrenching on a stripped-out bolt –bowing on blacktop, pledged to a mystery cultof grimy devotion – when it broke, and tranny oilloosed down my arm, warm, gloving my wristin metamorphic ooze, that whiff of hellspun through her gears, a dirty Zinfandelof shifting struggle, and I could taste the schist, the underworlds in her. To...

I sweeps out the last speck of his glitter dust, his hippie robes, and chucked that disco mirror-ball down the cliff. All day so I spits, I cussed,

watched their sail dwindle at the limit of all that isn’t this, my birthright, my home. And then I huff her dirty knickers up my snout – the pair I stole

when she bathed in my creek, in the buff, posed mid my rocks, my ferns, knew...

Do nothing, and it’s demolition in slow-mo – roof-drains clog, pitches sag, standing water collects trapping blown dirt off sun-parched ball-fields, silting the pond’s edge to shape a pocket-bog, like you find in remotest alpine meadows at summer’s end. Dark algae blushes fructify in sunlight, mosquitoes range at dusk where small birds dip a wing, the soupish mess an...