Found Object

Somebody left this white T-shirt like a hangman’s hood on the new parking meter— the magic marks upon its back say:I QUIT METH 4-EVER. A declaration to the sky, whose angels all wear seagull wings swooping over this street with its torn scratch tickets and Big Gulp cups dropped by the curb. Extra large, it has been customized with a pocketknife or a canine tooth to rough the armholes where my boobs wobble out as I roam these rooms lit by twilight’s bulb, feeling half like Bette Davis in a wheelchair and half like that Hell’s Angels kingpin with the tracheotomy. Dear reader, do you know that guy? I didn’t think so. If only we could all watch the same TV. But no doubt you have seen the gulls flying, and also the sinister bulked-up crows carrying white clouds of hotdog buns in their beaks: you can promise them you’ll straighten up, but they are such big cynics. I should have told you My lotto #’s 2-11-19-23-36 is what’s written in front, beside the silk screen for Listerine Cool Mint PocketPaks™— which means you can’t hijack my name; no, you have to go find your own, like a Hopi brave. You might have to sit in a sweat lodge until you pass out or eat a weird vine and it will not be pleasant. Your pulse goes staccato like a Teletype machine— then blam you’ll be transformed into your post-larval being. Maybe swallowtail, maybe moth: trust me, I know because once I was a baby blue convertible but now I’m this black hot rod painted with flames.