Homecoming

Her memory ruined the scintillating trailerpark summer,
its lens on the Wimpy burger and
its nose filled with the gray doghouse odor.
The salad like melted tennis shoes.
She could’ve had fun, but this negative faculty
contributed to the cancellation of almost 100, 000
of the funniest parolees to be featured
on the giant trailer-sized television, which inexplicably retired
with an oldmannish wheeze and a big
coke face spitting plasma.
This wouldn’t sound like a big deal if you’ve
never seen a funny man on parole:
now picture a hundred thousand. How the
heck could Misty have prioritized a mere bad
memory of a hamburger over this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity? Misty lives in a trailer but her nose
is good. Her sensibility is so refined it’s virtually
Spock-eared. Fine, but wouldn’t this totally have
trumped that historical bad experience?
It was just a burger, for Christ’s sake;
we substitute bad things with good things
and the spin-offs are gluteal clefts nudged onto the riverbanks –
sunny around the shaded crack,
sane body temperature in a tear dress. 
Find your kickstarter, Misty.
Don’t recall that movie. Its vibes are bad
although its moral is good: a dark cavity develops
differently in a furry head.
Jake – the fucker who built a glass staircase to
your trailer bedroom which you’re too afraid to climb –
is coming home and would’ve been among the 100k
hilarious cons; now he’d probably just slump in
through the tin door and you’d get your usual
loveless head-pat, a hello
that sounds a lot like vomiting voicemail.