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I'm not the only liar in town

Arlene Ang

The tongue curves several light years away.

A dog standing on its bald spot, its ex-orange juice.
The night forges a club foot—
irreparable and dildodorous on the seesaw.

For three years, the mayor survived with syphilis.

The house is empty now—
under the porch, you can see the scrotum swell of sky.

A ride with a stranger, a dream in aluminum:
the clouds playing musical trees and there I was, epileptic,
in the A-4 freeway,
with an electric guitar for hair.

Something metallic in the wind buzzing, like déjà vu, tv snow.

On Madame Fatima's lap,

nine of hearts: yellow hands grabbing yesterday's news.
Runaway gingerbread men and sacrificial gods.

The crack in the ceiling is a repopulation of the vagina.
Next, the readership star sign.

My parents said I started out well—
they had me all planned like a short-order menu.

Now they don't know who I am. How I can live with linoleum.

Over the phone, communication fills up
on dirty pictures, sounds of toothless shouting.

Is it possible to survive without the ceremonial body?

For emergencies: a shelf filled with antennae;
also, a branch snap from the lintel.

Maternal love sips from a long history of guilt.

Arlene Ang

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