Dirty Realism
       

In my pragmatism I was covered not with want; I was produced
as an autumn day in a story about working artists. Their action
developed a rubric of disappointing menace. From such engines
of providence: the red tub, a goldmine of evidence.
The tan Corolla with its dirty realism spun out into my becoming.
Perhaps the conversation concerned movies when it's meant to be
about death someone joked with the ashtray, turning its bland sentence
nostalgically. Beds and hair-dos and gold paraded in constant
aesthetics. A man stood next to his heart, his exclamation point,
his kisses and hugs. How his face developed its arcane rite. I reason
via our argument within groves.

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Copyright © 2016 Hannah Brooks-Motl All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission