Maureen Thorson
ORANGE CRUSH
As sun turns to snow,
assholes seek
approval
from their bros.
Fists in the air,
all barks and hoots
and games of grabass—
to each his share
of camaraderie.
Shouting,
“Dude, let’s go!,”
they leap and text,
talk hockey
and abortive sex,
and kinda want
their mommas back:
Big cradling arms,
the dream of hair,
but that’s sick, yo—
they’ve left the womb,
but no dude behind
in bloodied fields
of pixels,
by pumpkin-colored
traffic cones.
They scatter
their enemies,
down down
left right.
If they
get owned,
they don’t forget—
they fight
and at the end of day
drink slurpees
and think
sleepy thoughts,
downloading content
like drones, like
ants, like worker bees,
but not contentedness.
War and data
are our subjects’ dream
and they’re sleepwalkers—
watch them go,
not hackers
or soldiers
but total dweebs,
punchbuggying
to adrenal beats.
They’ll take
their waking slow.
GREENBACKS
Hands
like
fat foxes.
Hands
that steal
hens.
I’ll “borrow”
a dollar,
then nab
all your pens—
making the grade,
one Bic at a time.
I smell
my fingers,
and money.
I have
money
for friends—
I say, let’s
make
a deal,
my
fond
presidents.
I’ll draw
you thick
‘staches;
you’ll
pardon
my crimes,
my petty
transactions,
my
filchings
and bribes.
Your olive-
drab
workwear
will cover
my sins;
I’ll caress
you
and dress
you
with these
sneaking
hands.
What money
has tattered,
money can
mend—
a delinquent’s
instruction
in
twenties
and tens.