Sunday, October 13, 2019

day NINE HUNDRED and NINETY SEVEN


And mirrors

Then woke and showered and traced the frosted shroud thinking, “Of course,” realizing that in Michael Jackson’s dreams he was white too and hadn’t a clue that memories crumble like bones and time pierces like arrows and the pulleys of Newton’s Laws triumph and Buster Douglas drops because Tyson’s uppercuts are black and red and fuming like Hubert Selby Jr.’s acne and when the terror seeps in, carves tracks and valleys of death in your face, you can punch the mirror if you don’t like what’s there. 

--Alex Z. Salinas 

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