Industrial Mojo

Wymar pushed into n-space
like a dog
leaving a gift on the lawn
the tenacious Kubb still refused
to relinquish its will to digestion
Wymar thumped his chest
and belched up a combination:
bitter acorn, sawdust
with hints of cedar and birch
not entirely unpleasant
he thought as he gathered his bearings
and determined he was right where
he wanted to be

in the arched dormer window above
he saw a large mirror was placed
to redirect the sun’s rays inward
harvesting, he thought
the crazy bitch was to do it again
still though
three years to go until graduation
why was she prepping the work so early
it smacked of ill-etiquette
but so did he
ill-etiquette was literally
stewing in his juices

the yard was awfully overgrown
every inch of it thorns and burrs
perhaps Lady Tailor lacks the funds
for a thirty dollar a week landscaper
Oo, that does not bode well
how many more futures can she steal
on her dwindling pauper’s reserves
none of he had his way

he looked up to the window once more
was the harvest one of impatience, convenience
or… could she be wise to him
not a chance, he burped
entombed in flesh
the Kubb could transmit only its terror
good for keeping the others in line
if she was planning to undo the boy
before his eighteenth
then it was only right to act now
from his satchel he pulled
an old tin Coca-Cola can
filled with used engine oil
the oil had been drained
from Henry Ford’s very own Model A
the oil’s vessel
was also quite unique
from the first test run of canned Coke
for export only to U.S. military in the Far East
Korea specifically
the soldier, Private Meyer,
nicknamed ‘Wiener’
the previous owner of this particular can
had his throat slit by spinning shrapnel
as he drank
blood and Coke spilled from the wound
but not in equal measure

Wymar picked his way through the weeds
to where the large arroyo rock rested
on it he expertly drizzled and splashed
flung and dripped his special brew
it began to glow as if from deep within
fissures opening, the fires pouring out
the boy would awaken
to be undone or not
either way no matter
this time the boy would awaken
and Wymar, as he danced
his Jackson Pollock dance,
felt it fleetingly
like the brush of a bat’s wing ‘cross his heart
a doubt, a concern
a small uncertainty
that maybe waking the boy
was not a wise idea
was not in fact
even his idea
well, it was too late now
the fire sprites were in flight
“Welcome boy to the real world,”
Wymar whispered, wedging himself back
into the distanceless void


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