When nothing in the plane fully functions, well…

I’d eat Kim Novak’s
chicken dinner,
big fucking deal.
I keep thinking about Joe Dimaggio and how I didn’t know the man.

He died in Hollywood, Florida
and there’re so many Hollywoods and Paris’
Africa has its own America.
Finland its Tokyo,
Mexico its Sydney. By any other name
a blowjob. I only buy cheap wine to drink out of some phantoms bellybutton
reciting Oliver de la Paz, Dear Empire
this hand is breaking itself
against your defense mechanisms.
I don’t know who ‘your’ is.
The surgeon general warns: The New Love
is saying what you mean
and not meaning it until you assure its authenticity.
I really am not sure
who this ‘you’ is.
Maybe your cake is from a gas station. ̇
What’s the expression…
damaged goods?

Author Biography

Michael Martin is a poet. Work has appeared in Drunken Boat, OH NO Magazine, Anti- and Swink. Michael lives in LA where he also publishes data and art through Brain Paper Press. (southroyalty.tumblr.com @gogogadgetpoet)