J. A. Tyler
Posters of a man cover broken glass windows with wallpaper thin as moth wings. Dusty and fragile and brittle to the gusts. Some people cheer the man and drink to his health. Some people hate the man and curse his name with spit in dust. But everyone sees his raised fist and the colors of their used-to-be flag. Everyone reads graffiti and chicken scratch.
They are nomads now. Building veiled castles in middleworld sand.
The hanged man. The poster child. The reason for and against and the way it exists now.
Twentysomethings or who is counting and the streets are constant train wrecks of sound. Fingers and the noise of ever on mule-colored sheets masking lukewarm children. Worthless coins on dead eyes. A makeshift city that doesn’t exist on maps.
They all stand in the streets and raise their own fists but their fists are makeshift too and are translucent like paper. Missiles and bombs drop right through them. Like mosquitoes through netting. Like the rolling lead murk in the drinking water.
When the city fails the remaining rebuild. They tent and cloak and partition. Divide and section and rust. Living on in sandalless feet. Long streets with no numbers and electrical boxes humming bomb shell noises.
Piss runs down gutters and it never rains.
Men and women cheer with fists and threaten with fists and see nothing in return. The streets bend and shift. Ever reigning. No longer the long street anymore.
Among other publications, J. A. Tyler has recent work in Lamination Colony, Monkey Bicycle, Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, and Word Riot. His debut novella is forthcoming from Ghost Road Press in 2009 and his prose poetry chapbook will be available soon from Trainwreck Press. He is also the founding editor of the literary review Mud Luscious and a recent addition to the online editorial team at Pindeldyboz. Read more at www.aboutjatyler.com.