This Land Is Mylar

balloons collapsing

onto sites of un-

speakable sadness,

it’s an orchestra

whose conductor

wags a corn dog           at the horns.

This land of ours

eats up marches

and techno

and heartstrings

and spit-shined schadenfreude.

If you get hurt at the circus

you have to join—

no better way to see

this land,

which a big bland hand shook out

like a sheet       and everywhere

shit went flying,

some of which was us.