The strong images flew away
like canvasbacks, mallards, gadwalls
from a Ducks Unlimited calendar,
decoupaged in bar tables, deep
down at the Mississippi Flyway.
Drown in a bourbon millimeter.
You can wipe whiskey with a sleeve,
and smother intrusive inspirations.
Don’t look at the taxidermy carnival.
It will give you ideas.
Don’t bury your images in the yard.
You’re supposed to starve the faeries,
mow down grave mushrooms,
take off your Scotch bonnet and
burn your scalp with moonlight.
The people in charge decided
everything was math.
Don’t feed images after midnight,
or you get an algae bloom of jpegs
the algorithms can’t digest,
conjure a labyrinth casino,
with moving slot machines,
remapping their games
whenever you learn the rules
or start toward the exit.
The last movie ever made
will be eight hours of pietà,
with AI car chases,
AI Marlon Brando,
and AI explosions.
You’ll watch it on your phone.
The poem originally appeared in Locust Review 13 (Winter 2025/2026)