Plastic Tacos Poem

The guitar was so loud you couldn’t hear it
or even its echo, losing patience.
The videos had no privacy, fits
of responsibility, or golden rule of omniscience.
I thought I saw him pull off his jeans as a joke
near the $7 water bottles, boiling.
I knew only the idiots who covered his songs, broke
professionals with a maze of useless, loitering
connections that were decommissioned
to make room for plastic tacos from the Mission District.

Under the smell of grocery-store sushi,
sticking to everything in sight,
We put our faces into the floor like I Love Lucy,
beaming out past the atmosphere right
into the heart of an alien civilization
full of dodecahedron sex machines
with perfumed covers and scented ventilation.
Ricky’s depression made them feel sorry for us
and the political slaves that TV helped abolish.

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