i am at a motel with two boys and a girl,
watching Rush and other subculture kinds of fare
with our collective hitchcock blank stare.
i throw in an episode of the Shield , for which we deeply care.
then attempt to crash after a long week of work. but its friday so energy is thick, with air. infecting our aura, thora-lee !
(like some retroviral anti-scare).
i could not see it in my friend Laura, all hella jazzed and dressed up for the city...
looking rather pretty
(from my bi-op perspective).
in her dress she made herself
at the collective.
her heart in there
somewhere...
threaded to a seam, hours in a chair.
with the imperfections
homemade anything
has meaning
[not like heartless clothes
made in rows
by factory workers]
she softens
in tubs
her linens
by toes
in countries where the wages suck
down and out a cheap production
the corporate vibe is 'make a buck'
profit margins grow and grow
with no deduction
the ceo writes checks
for blow
imported himself
out of Mexico
declares all visits
'factory business'
courtesy of Nafta
[when interrogated over a table, and asked about said visits
they hold a bag of powdery substance, he asks them 'What is it??']
Laura shes on point for real
I watch her...
so far ahead of us!
Her style homemade
so non-impact
like sex
in backseat
cadillac
the leather expands
after it contracts
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