In between stations

Somewhere

Out there,

Beneath the

Starry ceiling

Of the

 Milk Chocolate FM universe,

Dotted with Cotton-candy clouds

And

Plenty of

Pink & purple

Gum-drop shrubbery.

And

Just above

The grainy,

Coagulated veins

That bleeds

Constant

Blood

&

And sings no songs.

And  intersect across

A  desolate

Landscape.

Complete with

Tumble-weeds, and

Discarded cassette tapes.

Their ribbons long ago,

Ripped apart by Coyotes.

(Although still lacking in armadillos)

This Static AM wasteland.

Is haunted by one or

Two lost signals.

(Not of the smoke variety)

Some unfortunate endorsements that took

A wrong turn

On their way from

The relative safety of their

Their stationary station.

Whose

Very name-sake,

Was

Concocted

Over a hot bowl

Of alphabet soup,

With dreams of

Celebrities & synthesizers

That could be spread

Amongst the various other air-waves

Like finger-paint.

By infinite antennas.

For all to enjoy.

Now they

Swim

Aimlessly,

Splashing around inside

Electric tubes,

Electric water slides,

That hover

Alongside

The crowded interstate.

(Like guardrails)

These signals call out!

To their

Mothers

Or

Microphones.

Mumbling words like

Sunscreen

And cataract.

And not much else.

They do not receive a response.

Nary a whisper.

Just some

Screeching

&

Other miscellaneous feedback.

That  says quite a bit more,

Than any milk carton, ever could.

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