Marry the boss’s daughter.
Being born ugly,
or pretty, but without right or wrong.
Never step foot in the West.
The West eats their young.
Little fatties.
Good fat is never seen,
only heard
in the blood.
And only pure blood,
super-quick and golden,
pumping lottery wins,
pumping gonorrhea.
Total freedom.
Wave the flag.
Stomp knees backwards
of the homeless.
Make them jump like crickets
right out of town.
Get those prices back up;
this is freetown!
This is prime-time.
I have a big one.
I got the big prick.
And if I don’t, that’s your problem.
I’m the greatest salesman.
My phone is bakelite red
and ten stories high
and sings Elvis—
but fat Elvis,
on the toilet
on coke.
I have twenty balls.
I have fifty eyes.
They all look up
at Molech,
“Hey, buddy.”
Arm in arm,
we go to the orgy,
and rally;
the monsters all made of truck.
The whole country made of truck.
My heart: one big truck.
900 horses
stomping,
guzzling wocky.
No, Tris is better.
Sprinkled with presseds from China.
It’s all from China—
cheaper that way.
We keep clean that way.
We go on vacation,
they clean up after.
We fuck,
we puke,
we cheat,
we laugh.
They clean.
They get married.
Stay married.
We get divorced.
— Garth Miró is a writer based in New York City. His work has appeared in Litro, Sundog Lit, XRAY, and Maudlin House among others. His debut novel The Vacation is out through Expat. He currently works as a handyman. And paints.