Hell’s Fall Festival
Jake Hajer

We call the land stripped—
cell phones with dusty
cameras staring at blue
twinkle and static
like the back allies of heaven.

Acidic lead gardens
rained of shattered
car parts. Rubber peaks
browned of burlap droughts
and risen in buildings of batteries;
Blotted in an artic paper dress.
Flicking a Bic pen against
A cubicle and dreaming of
Brazil.

But in fall is hope
for winter.
—Chromed like martinis
and personal like
reflections in concrete.

Bumbling wind
encourages into
tornados to blow
out the fires.

Crags take drink tickets
and spigots in crumbled dry wall
for the marrow—

Frolicking
in rags of cellulite;
Nasty bark hardened to
nymphs
Reprieves of electronic
islands
and sands
of hounds—

Willing into fate
our second sin—
Sultry slow slur;
Grumbling cur—
Curves evolving into
Animals.
Cuddling in hell’s fall
festival—

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