An Insect's Dream of Honest Concrete
Miles Varana
So often there are blocks that give way to
the arachnidian spires of wind-up basilicas
and stretchered nuns who cry out pantomime Italian,
Questo è tutto per i turisti, This is all because of the tourists.
Faces everywhere are set in plaster and handed
over to the cops. The cops are hard at work on a
bas-relief collage for the next big potluck, and
they say, We’re all just itching to show you.
Wherever there are quickening parkside parking lots,
there are lonely office men who scuttle over every
crack, careful not to break Mother’s back, and who will tell
you, Never turn your back on the kind of woman you meet online.
Grandma is the pinching, candy-giving carnival
clairvoyant of early youth. Her irises are onion haunted
pools, her teeth are the yellow, ship-breaking rocks of
distant shores. She glides over the mentholated carpet
and glares deep into your pupils as she reveals
your destiny: You’d better listen to me, boy.
Miles Varana
So often there are blocks that give way to
the arachnidian spires of wind-up basilicas
and stretchered nuns who cry out pantomime Italian,
Questo è tutto per i turisti, This is all because of the tourists.
Faces everywhere are set in plaster and handed
over to the cops. The cops are hard at work on a
bas-relief collage for the next big potluck, and
they say, We’re all just itching to show you.
Wherever there are quickening parkside parking lots,
there are lonely office men who scuttle over every
crack, careful not to break Mother’s back, and who will tell
you, Never turn your back on the kind of woman you meet online.
Grandma is the pinching, candy-giving carnival
clairvoyant of early youth. Her irises are onion haunted
pools, her teeth are the yellow, ship-breaking rocks of
distant shores. She glides over the mentholated carpet
and glares deep into your pupils as she reveals
your destiny: You’d better listen to me, boy.