Crooked

Pluto, spread out before me like the yawn of a budgie.

Chernobyl, resounding with the guitar solos of, and used

as a toilet by, the ghost in the Matrix.

Vape clouds, staining the Girl Scout's love-brain.

Snake oil, the haunted goo of a Ku Klux Klan subtweet.

The church's brand, loneliness, skywritten.

The smell of a bloody pew.

Yellow, uprooted commercial gore, magnified.

In the vacuum of Silicon Valley's death-circus.

In the blender of a cryptid's holy bite.

Impaled, on the hashtag of a giant kiss.

Transformer flower-weight, immersed.

Like two insects, in wedding-cake slapstick.

Hubble, before it became a rabbit hole.