The reason this is a junkyard: I found the phrase: cultural plastic and silence, in a book I was reading and just had to do something with it.
The reporter everyone trusted
Wasn't pretty, but coiffed.
And I imagined careers busted
in cultural plastic and silence.
When she stood at the front of the podium,
talking to herself and some kind
of weathered pandemonium,
I swallowed the scum rising
from the back of my throat, almost calmed
by the cut up the stomach,
the peeling of the skull, embalmed
in the moment she points to curvatures
with her pen, marks beatings that tore
apart the cerebellum, frontal lobe,
and his confidence. A man of lore,
will, and something not quite human.
She speaks with insistence, as if proving
that somehow we all wanted him
lying on the slab, accomplished. I listen
for another minute, above the dim
essential singing of a feathered bird
and the dead puppeteer who loved them.
Like I loved Formaldehyde
and gasoline, poking at a hem, and staring.
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