Until it fermented and dripped down the chest,
maybe there were weights to be lifted.
Through cracked teeth and furrowed brow,
they try to shove the Artemis back in through
a different orifice - one asks not "why" but "how,"
pull head down, o'er the warehouse food market,
through shit and cyst.

Bespectacled and frail, it chooses not to pull
from the pit of its stomach into the microphone,
instead choosing to scream from the neck.
It will have three good years of vocals left before
it's throat dries up.

There was a mugging at the corner of Johnson and
Wayne near the Cricket cellular store, his eye socket punched
in but his iPhone left in his pocket.
One doesn't think the nefarious culprits questionable for neglecting
to take the device; One thinks they simply overlooked it.
Grab another piece of what is left and shove it down your throat.
Sop the plate up with your tongue.
Treading from a firm collar grasp, dragging toes across the tops
of trees, rising above the muck it had to learn to go without before
it learned anything at all.

O'er a Peavey stack, Magnum bottles, the same rescheduled parking lot
repavement, brooding sanitation pick up and gregarious number-faces
we gave ourselves fake names as we learned;
Lori Beverage.
Professor Dad.
Nebraska Crane...
Poor advice.