the fact of the broom is not the brush component
where it goes to swoosh mother proud
gotta move it with pressure
to beat crud out of cracks of shitholes
the fact of the broom ain’t that it is long or has your sister’s hair
in it, that there’s pieces of your sister’s scalp
that don’t grow back anymore
the fact of the broom is that you buried the brush
part of it in a dirt hole and stashed the wooden shaft
the truth is that you threw the bristle piece of the broom over the cinderblock wall, gave it up to the regionality of meth bummers along the arroyo. the truth is you stashed the broom shaft in the undercarriage of cholla & horse cripplers & yucca. that truth is in the golden dust and exposed sun. the truth is that when no one was looking you turned the shaft of the broom into a two-handed sword. the truth is you play a lead role in a swinging fantasy, an elf warrior slaughtering humans and trolls. the truth is that your blade is your mother’s broken back. the truth is that in a public library you saw a graphic book called Elfquest where elves had huge ears and four fingers on each hand. the truth is that in the book elves could be located in the forests or oceans or deserts or skies. the truth is you aren’t good at reading and this has cost your ass but you don’t care. the truth is in the phantasmagoria of beating light when you pretend that you find the one kinda passable troll who is trustworthy and broken and mistreated and you fall in love with the troll and save her and have a halfbreed son together named Two-Edge. the truth is that your make-believe family tries to live underneath a mountain to escape retribution. the truth is outside anger always finds your hidden home and kills your troll love in the mountain anyway. the fact is this game is a variation of vengeance abutting vengeance and you don’t know why your vengeance is impoverished.
the fact is that the paint rubs off the physical
broom hilt due to the oil of your hands
which will always have one finger too many
the fact is that behind your house there is a dry washout
the fact is the transients watch you for theater:
the fact is the bums have terrible misfires and fent pays rent for someone
the fact is the arroyo is filled with trash and lives packed in abandoned
shopping carts and the arroyo is called Embudito Arroyo
which means little funnel
recently there is an old lady who makes a gate through her portion of the cinderblocks. recently she switchbacks down into the arroyo and bends over often. recently she cleans out detritus of every kind everyday. recently she wears black polyester shorts swooped up into her and has varicose veins on her legs. recently when she’s bent you can see the outline of two miniscule hills in her crotch. recently there is no trash in the arroyo but you know that trash is a form of nature and that trash is an infantry battalion and that trash will always reclaim the ground of imagination and stick to the pricks of horse cripplers.
the fact is that old ladies are like trash and nature, and soon
someone else joins her with a lawnmower and a weedwacker
in the dust and they keep at it
the shaft of the broom has vanished
you 4 inches taller
your sister’s hair stays about the same
splotchy texture but your sister moves out
one day and doesn’t say goodbye.
2026