My Cardboard Balcony

Lyrical Inversion by Belinda Roddie Broadway lies down on the lamb, who squeaks beneath its asphaltian girth. Still, its innocence is preserved through fossil fuels and vinyl records and Peter Gabriel's guttural eulogies over a loudspeaker and a dust cloud and a carpet full of crawlers. We gotta get out to get in, boys.

Degrees Of Separation by Belinda Roddie This heat is petulant, personal: Handcrafted, needle and thread settling steam into yarned and yawning bones. Not even in my own home can I avoid the veil, which seals the sweating in, rather than whistling it out with a funeral tune. As I walk alone on the curb that locks teeth with Fifth and Thirteenth Square, I'm reminded of when my mother melted in front of me, as the sun revealed its full head of hair. She revealed my new reflection in her puddled face, and that was when I learned my eyes swallowed stars. Not the hottest ones, but the ones that were already dead, since the dying scream loudest, burn brightest, laugh hardest, and tell the absolute worst jokes. This month, I'll break my jaw on cinder blocks, holding up the scorched carcass of my father's Jaguar: defanged long ago, worthless in this swell of disenchanted summer night. Next time the heat waves at me, I'll spit directly in its eye, then...

And in the red corner, we have the Devourer of All Souls. He sits with his tails all fluttering across his stool, drinking a Cosmo and stirring his cold soup with an ivory spoon. He recently got on testosterone, so he's feeling good in his transition. Soup could use an extra soul, though. And salt. In the blue corner, the opponent smokes a cigarette and rethinks his challenge.

by Belinda Roddie You better start doing it right, my dear. Because Lord knows, there's no Messiah to save your hide if you sink too fast in the molasses. Not even Social Media Jesus could pull you from the sickly sweet quagmire, and without the Christ in Christianity, it's just Ianity - and Ian next door is useless, too. I've given you time to perfect the dance, time to practice your dexterity. Knife juggling doesn't cut it if it cuts you open instead and leaves you to bleed out like the oil of a crushed corvette. And swallowing fire isn't meant to leave your vocal chords as thin as ashes. You can still sing, for crying out loud; if not, then whom will your sister accompany when she plays drums? You are as frail as the plates I spun when I was your age. This circus act is a circus act in the way I didn't want to define it. I broke porcelain between my teeth; you carry yourself as if you were a disgusting, lumpy doll. No frills can substitute the clumsines...