By: Michael Fertik
Oh, carbon Chrysler bromide! Thank G-d for your offgas Polyvinyl chloride Desorption.
Fine tiny olfactory divine, New Jeep smell pixie, Slay the shit out of the Puny memory sprite.
Never had nothing with NO ONE in this car! Vin Number 1C4RJFGN4JC284331; This model is fresh, untainted, Like the better me, I hope.
Virgin leather driver seat. Out, damned spot! Ha! Your sweet poison scent Leaches, Antisepticates.
No one has ever made this place foul with my/your heart rate Like the Rip Van Winkle Aireloom mattress With its divots and highlight reels Sweating poison.
Same as the purple neckie the other one gave me Abrading my face like a Snapchat filter Reminding me of our year (was it two?) Tiny pixie, make me forget.
I still have it. It’s purple. WTF. I’ll throw it away soon and buy a better neckie.
Then the mattress and the box spring. I’ll shed them leftovers like An actress sheds cell phone numbers . . .
(Argh. The Dupont textured Saxony cut pile carpet. Got to tear that out like a shitty hair weave. Maybe move house to ankle that sex anvil.)
. . . First things first. Make room for new.
Bitch of a white goddess, supine and lecherous on golden bough: Release me from your knowing That I may ridicule the superstition of my gods And breathe in the cleaning latex compounds of a new Jeep
And the fragrance of new skin.
Michael Fertik is a published fiction author, poet, produced film writer, and playwright. His poetry, short fiction, and novellas have recently appeared in Minor Lits; december; The Write Launch; Eclectica; Litro; Cease, Cows; Feminine Collective; etc.. His writing has won fiction, poetry, and film prizes and includes a New York Times Bestseller. He lives in Palo Alto, California.