Abe Lincoln just came back and started taking selfies. Meanwhile, the hipster army turned every bar into a museum with names like “Where are all the honest men?”
Witches were flying matchsticks ‘round the minimum wage, daily pay crowd, flaunting faces like goblins and legs of steel.
The cowboys paid no mind and were riding bigger horses than before. Mud, women, flags tobacco, all flapped behind the tires.
Keyboards were playing flamenco citing record collections stolen from my dad, I think. Probably the clothes, too.
The brewer never texted back, but I guess death is an excuse who knew his teeth would turn blue. He was cold enough to drink
especially since jazz stopped being music and became a conversation – asking without questions, counting without numbers.
All the walls were covered with the same two pictures (but with different autographs): paintings of foreign lovers. Exoticization
of the other is only the latest fad, but if food comes in cans then why shouldn’t life be the same? Preservatives
for dinner, for adventure stored on our pocket-worn televisions. Who needs a watch? Tumor-building geniuses made a fortune
while Phileas Fogg rolls in his grave (currently being trampled by who knows what). The interstate killed the rodeo star
and now all the rugged men lost their hitchhiker thumbs to sloth and smoke ultra-lights with conviction. Street cred
based on paper-cut astronauts and multi-tasking plate jugglers. Vaguely, I thought of Spanish women and searched my neck for a place to hang
a leather vest. I wanted to be the one to punch that bastard across a saloon floor but no one fights there without putting their findings in a newsletter.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #19: First Sentences, which required that the first sentence in the text must be used as given. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.