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Mulch Oblivion

Anonymous and discarded corpses, maneuvered through door jams and down hallways, heaved over porch rails, and dragged nonchalantly to the curb; horizontal has-beens laid callously along concrete cracks, shrugging at a slanted speed limit sign, abandoned carcasses of January 11th.

Colorless clouds rest on the horizon like soiled orphanage mattresses. Scattered pine needles not yet swept from the foyer, nor Dirt Devil’d from the beige carpet, reveal the likelihood of struggle.

Forensic evidence not analyzed suggests organic indifference, spiritual vacancy, and a culture of consumption, depletion. Mummified idols packed into newspaper hibernate in lifeless cocoons, sentimental magic in ski boot boxes, returning to basement shelving, labeled “Ornaments/ other Santa shit.”

Mythology can replace this malevolence, imagine a ritual a dint more respectful. Acknowledge the family fir with near deciduous decency, or even with the gratitude of dear god.
Two youngish men of differing shapes but identical fluorescent vests swing from the back of a chipper truck, holding painted upright symmetrical poles. Alternatively they dismount into the street, grip stiffened trunks and hoist the starless steeples into the mercy of mulch oblivion.

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