Cartel Nudes Accompanied by a Ladder
Joe Jimenez

Gutless, I've plated the low-side city in all its views: blue hue, brown bone, white cue, arc tone. Hear me here breathing cinder seamed loosely; crushing, more crushing. Lush, not-meadows of concrete push patrols, and it's the onslaught that stills in us the mute pool of bundling blocks. Horizon pulverized: tough-maned gulls embark, shunned, semi-deplumed, gangly. Lazily or stunned, wings fail their flapping. A hex of birds falls through cloud clots: a hive piled high where inept limbs lost flight. Gull-less skylines glint weight, won't glean the trucks' payloads or the citizenry, in all its might, suffering the blights of the stymied lung and so many guns. (Neta: the promulgation of guns did come; rain did not; they call themselves the Zs; and I am afraid to say their name.) And the rib-rung escalates the flies. Fluids have dried. I might acquire work carving tunnels one day. Huffing, past-denizens elude sun, crossing steep concrete ravines with one coyote-hearted radio: "I'm going in for the kill. I'm doing it for a thrill. I'm hoping you'll understand. I hope you don't let go my hand."