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A J URQUIDI

HOTELECOMMUNICATIONS

 

  The attendant shortchanged me

in a desert hovel.

                  Altruism decks both treetops.

            Certain lands have more stars

 

 

      above than home; this may make

less valuable home.

                  The short attendant changed me

            in a verde hostel. He knew

 

 

      nothing of my reputation

as a grammatical badboy.

                  My iceberg showed him no tip.

            I shuffled to my room and kicked

 

 

      the ice bucket. My new genetics

contain untreated sewage.

                 When I brush up on my hair

            in the hallway it always

 

 

      starts a fight. Bleach leaks

from the mid-morning

                  showerhead as the chemical

            cart creeps three suites away.

 

 

      Clarity decks both rooftops

in the cracked form of sky-

                 lights and gremlins, starved,

            purple, who watch us sleep.

 

 

      Charity’s lost on me so my estate

gains its namesake. The gates

                  give me a hard time.

            In the elevator I lower

 

 

      my self-esteem, then in the lobby

fish for complimentary

                  breakfasts. The previous evening

            returns with my waffles—

 

 

      the attendant knocked on the wall,

thirteen in succession

                  until the landscape plummeted

            to the bed. That’s when it hit me.

 

 

      The bubbling festering pus

born of honest livings

                  was guppying through the wall,

            into the cathode-rays—quick

 

 

      and accidental, occupying defunct

bazookas and local

                  UFO hotspots, tying one off

            and tying one awful,

 

 

      cathedralarily dipping a sharp-

shot artist intention

                  in shower drips, then stolen

            bibles. It dipped between

 

 

      the horrible legs of bread beetles

and spinning señoritas,

                  still clean-checked, double-edged

            restless and tying one off.

 

 

 

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Circle Poetry Journal///Ministry of Obscure Knowledge  ©  2015