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Having an Average Weekend

Nathan Logan

Alfalfa up the nose? Absolutely.
Nothing else can explain that scent

and the cattle groupies. The sky,
a leaky, bloody, overeasy egg, drips

over the city. That seems natural.
The highway breathes loudly, like

it’s being rammed against a janitor’s
closet wall. Downtown, no one

picks up after pet rocks. Art gallery
patrons discuss portraits with glued

on beavers: the dam building ones
and the kind that sometimes rent out

space in pants. But is it art? But
is it postmodern fluff? All the poets

gather at the monument for losing wars
and recite Tate. That seems natural.

Apples are served, but there’s no nutrition
in something you plug in. Moose

give a shit about nutrition. They eat
pizza in the alleys and don’t object

to anchovies as long as there’re papers
showing low amounts of mercury. That

seems natural. Nightlife requires a
familiarity with Russian literature.

“Russian literature” means dry humping.
Christmas lights are left on all night –

come tornado, come pestilence. That
seems natural. Cellphones edge out birds

and no one asks how. Their songs are
easier to sing; everyone agrees on that.

Nathan Logan

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