Her pale green eyeliner glowed in the dark.
A sargasso sea redhead with a black widow
tattooed on her pale neck, two silver hoops
looped through her left nostril, taking tickets,
righteously stoned, a carnival honeymoon of
maniacal clown laughter, buzzers, sirens,
blood-curdling screams, laser tracers, and
heavy-metal machine-gun fire litanies of gyp.
She’d been on the street since turning twelve,
landed a graveyard shift at Mickey D’s where
she met this guy with a pink mohawk and two
black teardrops inked below his bloodshot eyes,
who operates GALACTIC BATTLEGROUND
hovering above humid midwest midways in
small-town fairgrounds that smell of stale beer
and livestock piss, with a clutch of small space
invaders, suspended in shiny fibre-glass saucers
spinning through a Milky Way of moths, beetles,
and various species of flying insects. Then, on
Saturday night they pack up their universe
and drive away.
David Gross’ most recent collection is Little Egypt (Flutter Press, 2017). He lives with his wife on a small farm in the hills of southern Illinois. He has recent work in Big Muddy, Blue Collar Review, Lilliput Review, Poppy Road Review, Solitary Plover and The Cape Rock.