Spotlight: BURNT SUNFLOWER by CF Roberts


here my better notes
the sin of objectifying
individuals as golems
or knives or steel pig
constructs and
i wonder how anyone
so educated could
be so lacking in a
sense of irony
i hawk an erudite loogy
and continue on my
path of cultural
colorful violent smears
my fingers on your face
Ayn Rand said all art
must be representational
otherwise we’ve devolved to
the level of children
i say open wide, lady
i’ve got some fresh poop for you.


it’s 8 pm and the man at the door
(speaking past the chain) asks if
there’s any reason we’re refusing
subscriptions to the local paper
(my afterthought–bad journalism?)
door open a crack, chain still on
behind me my wife clutches a
pair of scissors


coming up from
high fructose agony
“it’s hot,” i tell them, “i don’t want anymore!”
“ what do you mean, hot?” they cry.
“this isn’t hot, it’s cold!”
“it’s burning my mouth,” i tell them.
“that’s nonsense! have some! it’s good!”
they pour it down my throat again
and the carbonated apocalypse continues



changes passengers approximately
fifty per cent of the populace applaud
while approximately the other fifty
hatch theories and bemoan one form
of tyranny or another
few stop to consider that the existence of
that big car may be the real problem


forcing intuition down a
narrow membrane of a mental
passage into stygian wasteland
it emerges condensed and
diamond hard, small, fragmented
slivers beaten down from coherence
into a fine, ground mess
hard to hold, easy to
puncture one’s skin on

staggering down the busy street
dodging knotted traffic
screaming and babbling prayers
and curses
hello, lamppost

did you hear squeaky’s getting out?


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