mla chernoff

Imaginariums of journalistic integrity
pumping treadles through the breadline’s sigh.
Who chained our agendas to the radiator?
Who killed Laura’s pomade? A young twink
yells at cloud. We cough up hickory sticks
in the hot heat of a Substack chucked bareback.
The scene transvestigates itself. Across time and
between space. We squeak the mess, creatively.

Non-fiction runs handsomely down the cheeks of
its punditry. You dance along the tumid bylines. The moon
mouths mottos at a clownfish in full uniform. Chumbling
saltines, the sun forgets its sunglasses, seeks therapy.
Consensus is sexy. Consensus is breached. We burgle oaths
to do better in the morning of some other week, a few
months from next year. We murmur at each other,
from the spotless window of a spotless dream.

                                                                                              …

                                                                       I’m sorry that happened (to you).

                                                                                              …

                                                                                            Yeah.