Wet him up then I'm swayze (or: An ode to Ron Toby)

It’s all been weird,
fucked up more or less.
Since B____ told me the story about the dead 8-year-old girl
in sunglasses
riding the subway.
That was around the same time the la came back,
like a gust of unwanted winter wind in April.

The dead girl with sunglasses bobbing with the shimmying train between two void-faced obesai...

I’m a doctor,
that girl was dead.

The fucking sunglasses
-probably pink plastic with dark square lenses-
the kind they give out free at credit unions for opening a checking account.

Her flaccid body slumping and rising with the jarring bumps of the train, and the black lensed oversized sunglasses, and her probably pale skin along with those skeezers who just dosed and then drugged that 7-year old boy and locked him in a closet thinking he was a spy, and the vomit that looked like sweet potatoes smeared on the panes of the glass tunnel that stretches over the freeway.

We need to get off of this train
right now.

All that paired with the eerie sounds and muffled laughter
coming from behind my roommate’s
locked door.
Along with the blade and the Canadian whiskey is making me feel
like everything is fucked.

Like we live in a world that eats children
where full-grown beasts draw borders in blood around their snow-white escalades,
-did I mention I saw that too?-
devour 7 and 8 year olds,
let their purile blood drip across the wrinkles
of their pock-marked
too-tan faces,
until they become too fat
and pedophilic,
and reach their hands down their gullets
to molest the salted flesh and then go too far and vomit up the day’s feast in splattering spurts of sweet-orange filling.

You just have to trust me right now,
I know you’re scared.

And I’m pretty sure some part of it is taped on security-cameras
or helicopter videos
and beamed back to my roommate.
And he watches the carnivores and laughs,
holding his hand
to his mouth.