Junk Mail

for four days straight the godless mailbox was nothing but junk mail
for four days straight i opened the god damn door on it just to slam it shut
no letters, no christmas cards, no wedding announcements, not even bills
just four days in a row of the terrorists hitting me with the junk mail

four days straight of politicos too busy social climbing to plant a tree
four days straight of how many clowns can we fit in this car
this parade of monsters dressed like catholic school girls
the unending blaring horn of bigotry, the unending call to the streets

the television, the radio, the internet, the bus stop, milk’s up fifty three cents
folding my resume up like a paper plane and watching it dive bomb the void
strutting quietly past the corner fast food, pretending it’s not whispering at me
the call of the beer, the call to sit dizzy and not be chokeholded into thinking

the ice cream headache of commercials in the middle of youtube videos
the chronic back pain from digging through sixteen tons of news sources
stuck in the elevator for four years with the worst elevator pitch ever elected
clawing at the walls like a junkie, like a madman, like a lab rat forced to break down

and so i write. to whom it may concern. i hereby request. that you cease. and desist. from further shitting in my mailbox your bullshit ink machine manifesto. grapes. ninety-nine cents a pound. buy one get one free apples. milk is up fifty three cents. printed on the carcasses of dead trees. and i. forced to reconcile your bad decision. throw it in the trash. into the dumpster fire. that you created. piece by piece. with every photographic decision you made in the dark room of your heart as the working class began to eat at their own arms as they broke down and wept in the streets for food for shelter for basic common human decency that has somehow become foreign that has somehow become too expensive that has somehow become at best your attempts to throw a bone. a newspaper ad, no coupons, but just to let you know hey. milk is up fifty three cents. and next to the ad for boxed cereal a giant middle finger. in suit and tie. please. just fucking stop. with the junk mail.

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Author: brice maiurro

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

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