Satellite Minds

This doesn’t make much sense-
the green and brown beer bottles rattling together
on top of the fridge

Conan’s impossible hair bounces
and retains form even through the rabbit ears

she says
our antennae will be obsolete next February
so if we don’t get our act together
we’ll lose it all

lose what-
Conan’s hair?
I wonder aloud
breathing out smoke signals

even more-
she bites the orange and continues-

more than you could ever imagine


one of the bottles bounces off the linoleum
and suddenly I realize my trajectory
is not unlike
the fake metal
supermarket chair I sit in:

half in the kitchen
half in the living room

there’s only two of us in the efficiency
yet I swear there are three or more
depending on what her story is

repeatedly and possibly endlessly
in our electrified radio wave apartment
by satellite minds

the strip of golden plastic
delineating truth from memories
and forcing empty space between us


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