The Candidate

“My it’s hot in here!”
says the fat man

interviewing you
across a conference room table

then his face melts away
in clots of hot putty

that spread into a puddle
on the table

that leaks into a pool
on the floor

and a raw cracked
skull clacks

jittery xylophone
tick tock staccato

tapdance clattering
snaredrum battering

raps at you
without a breath

and your eyes jerk away
from the hollow swallowing you

into the holes in the skull
and the windows are filled

with huge red suns
and god it’s hot as hell



.