Amy Lynn Hess: October

Spring '07 TOC

45 plumes in Super Chicken’s  domain:   90 spats,   45
bibs,  and   45  or   so   woolen-embroidered  overlays.
Monkey-grinder  hats  barely  noticeable  under  phallic
plumes—              pornographically  oversized.  Electric
socks.      Heel-to-toe in the snow lips stuck frozen blue
to chunks of frozen metal we all smell like some sort of
grease,  oil  or 45-year-old green spit-goo.       We are
not cool        we were       never cool, we will      never
be cool.          5 spots in our socks for uniforms or long
underwear  and  turtlenecks  have  no  pockets and we
share  pepperoni pies or cheese  pies  or  simple cheap
pies   and   waitresses   go   mad   for   loss   of    tips.
Chickens have no pockets          but the one crazy man
in all of my hometown stands on his    red-plastic booth
table with checkered tablecloth to  tell  us what fools we
are and how we have  disturbed  his  dinner at 10 thirty
on a Friday night.  
Byawk                                                    he says he’s
laid an egg      he flaps out in cape and all in all a good
night.                      We’ve won the fight in the parking
lot but    lost the game before and some are still proud.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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