Alignment
Tracie Morell Tools to fix a machine that fashions the world's likeness lie scattered in every dirty place. Irony suckles a tit. Chop-shop Gurus hand out keys to the latest model of muscle bodied death traps: the out-of-spec brake- pads with warped rotors, the broken alternator. Cars as beautiful as the Chica with Ruby Woo lips pouting over a cherry red El Camino make it so the whole terrain is covered in tar and chips. Corrosion is cancer, so a good lube is essential. They are all getting fucked, even the most honest hard-day worker. The pinion seal, the differential (drip, drip, drip) in sync with the leaking from an exposed, engorged breast. She speaks awkwardly, in the tone of a commandment: We’re all motherfuckers here. Know this body- job, despite what you think you know of it, is so more sophisticated than you even realize. It’s the bread and butter and the thing that will kill us. Rusty Scars Covered by Lies It seems landscape mystifies everyone here. They have all forgotten how the stench from the iron forge on 12th and Cherry carried with it the stink of the hopeful will of paychecks that made even drunkards worth a lick of salt beading down their backs in front of the ovens. Those men grew deafer every day with little balls of iron building walls in their ears. The lucky ones fell into the molten ore, while the others would tell stories about the lives they will have during shut-down. But the barmaids just made a bundle during the hot month of July, while wives became more creative story tellers believing the lies they routinely told themselves. Industry was no better than waste, but we still don’t get it right. Even with Erie Malleable Iron and the paper mill gone, the lake is being poisoned by plastic beads from the latest beauty scrub, claiming to wash away the last ten years of lines down sinks, by the very women who promised themselves no more lies. |
About the author:
Tracie Morell was raised on the savannah by a pack of feral gazelles. At a young age, she learned to bend iron bars with naught but her teeth and sheer determination. During her school years, she consistently wowed her teachers with her ability to dodge skepticism and perform feats of whimsical magic. In her adult life, she has birthed miniscule acrobats who assist her in her day-to-day tasks of smashing banality. In her spare time, she enjoys semaphore, scrimshaw, and collecting rejection letters. She resides in a land beyond your reach. Also, she is grateful for ghostwriters like the spirited Ben Frazier. |