Space Race Headcase


there’s a mushroom in the houseplant
alive with dreams and yellow dust

the man in the corner of the road
asks for pastries without sugar

fully clothed,
the model strives for repentance
which she may never locate

who sold us this fantasy?

the mushroom said the nation was lost
to outer space
and the space race headcase

violet smoke rolls across the water
coated with oil
sandwiched between two yellow curbs

*published at Madswirl

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Filed under poetry, published work

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