LANDSCAPERS

and maybe god paints like an etch a sketch
shaken up and then twisted on both ends
he lets writhe the pixelated confines of his or her mind
and bleeding black across the gray canvass
they’ll say what is it
and he (or she) will say
“it’s a pony,”
but it don’t look like no god damn pony
not unless you know what a pony looks like
“what is it?” you’ll ask as she (or he) shakes and twists it again
“it’s a natural disaster,”
god will say
but this time you most likely won’t question it
if it’s a natural disaster it’s a natural disaster
and the streets will fill with the wreckage of one thousand broken
wooden homes and you’ll sit and you’ll ask yourself
“is this really what it is,”
carefully stacked cards
second after second of grain of sand within tight tweezers
moved carefully over into sand castles
and then the wave hits
and they may come through
truck after truck
the landscapers taking their giant paint brush
and painting over your beautiful scars with two-dimensional
television shows
all televised
all tossed up on the internet like a giant fucking billboard
wrapped around the mouth of liberty like a ballgag
that says
“everything is okay,”
because the tiny little landscapers came along
and they trimmed that grass right to regulation length
they wiped up your blood with a swiffer wet jet
and they told you
it’s over
move on
everything is okay

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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