1. The Tilt-a-Whirl
She locks her eyes on a single
objective.
Minnesota grown, tiny globes in
chaotic orbits, forces:
centrifugal, gravitational.
Under the diamond plates and
rickety
beams, magnetic eyes pierce her
stoned gaze.
Cool grass absorbs the summer sweat,
insinuations are made with cotton
candy lips, kissed, licked, then
lean to the left,
she can guess the weight of his
stare,
lean to the right,
he
can draw her character in unflattering detail.
Spinning under the stars, every focal point found is snatched relentlessly.
2. The Gravitron
With every turn, her
foundation weakens. The stab of inertia presses guts
and guilt against a fleshy fence. The calm, happy middle, laughs. The
and guilt against a fleshy fence. The calm, happy middle, laughs. The
boom of jealousy
penetrates her skull, watching through the dim as
lips lock in the safety of the center. Pushed and pulped, forced
lips lock in the safety of the center. Pushed and pulped, forced
to see, wishes she
could melt, seep through the wall.
Schools her eyes closed. Face flat, heart in throat,
Schools her eyes closed. Face flat, heart in throat,
stomach in chest,
sliding up and down without a
strand or hand to grasp, without an argument
strand or hand to grasp, without an argument
of fairness to stand
on, only her every
selfish moment broadcasted in stereo.
selfish moment broadcasted in stereo.
Every departure and
deception,
a catalog of injuries imposed,
a catalog of injuries imposed,
perhaps without
intention,
but undeniably without
but undeniably without
consideration.
3. The Zipper
Shift the weight when pulled over
the top. Emotional
whiplash, a cable in the core
she
purrs like a red hot engine revving
to the top of the hill, then he
throws
her
off.
The
Zipper moves down,
teeth
part, flip her, 180, 360…
…420. She is there, blushing,
squealing, with her name
being replaced, at a time when everything
was that easily
replaced. An Ace slips through her fingers, but she
stays there with
an emptied cigar, with too much cleavage,
watching
white powder lines disappear in hasty,
greedy
sniffs, in the glue of July.
The
zipper moves up, teeth clench, toss her at seven
RPMs around an oblong boom, as
the fireworks start.
Metal mesh, if
that cage opens, they’ll really see her bleed.
The jockeys
catcall the marks, step right up.
Scarlet lips unlock and laugh.
The Zipper moves up and down.
The
Devil’s Ferris Wheel.
4. The Kamikaze
Gondola
pendant
on a suicide
arm,
a promise to be slain costs
six
tickets if you’re a boy, and so much more
if
you’re a girl. Her last letter said, he’s taken me to his bed.
Ride
the pendulum, side to side, to delight or demise, or submit to the pit.
His
hands are in my hair, my maudlin heart is caged, and the music
here
is so loud, no one can hear me scream. All change
fell
from my pockets when he flipped me over.
This
shoulder harness is on too tight,
but
he said it’s the safest way
to
hold me
down.
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