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B. J. Love


The rockets have been glaring at us
as though they were a pack of hungry
cats & we were the ones stuck reluctantly
filling their bowls, & this whole process
has become somewhat, no—exactly like
a chore, & it’s not because I don’t share
an interest in rockets & firing mechanisms
& the politeness of disguising such things
as little red buttons, in fact those things
interest me very much, but what has
become choorish about this whole process
is that at the end of the day, when the cats
are all fed, all I have is the gold foil star
you put next to my name every time
I don’t forget to glare back at the rockets.

There was a bright light & then a mushroom
but they were both bitter & both tasted terrible
on the pizza & no amount of things sprinkled
on top could lessen the battery acid flooding
& rotting & ruining our taste buds, but
we kept on eating, attributing it to something
sensible, the shock of lingering volts letting us
both know that we are alive, & yes, that does
sound melodramatic, but don’t we all have those
days in our lives, when throwing a slice of pizza
at our televisions seems like the only appropriate
thing to do when our televisions won’t stop being
so goddamned melodramatic, when our televisions
won’t stop throwing slices of pizza at us, when our
televisions just won’t stop? So, lick the battery,
I think that is entirely appropriate in this time.

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