LAUNDRY MACHINE Joseph Villavicencio
PRAIRIE
10
A blue-collar worker’s dry cleaner, the breadwinner of every household’s basement, the custodian who doesn’t protest minimum wage, a Bauhaus basin, a jacuzzi fit for newborn babies, you are a success story: a one-armed fighter who’s never lost, not with any day’s hide, not even with that ruthless, rubber-bragging duo with those huge checkmark tattoos. Catechism classes on a beautiful spring day, your heartless gut is a notorious torture chamber known for waterboarding and its manipulation of a (fake) centrifugal force. A three-foot snow globe of God’s wrath, you are the final destination of my disease-ridden offerings. A room-temperature marinara made of dead skin cells, starchy dick-puke, and my human fur, that is your undeniable forte. The product of a belly dancer born of robot culture, the victim of an epileptic seizure, your intense gyrating sends fabric prisoners up only for a second and then down again. A resume-builder for housewives around the world, a necessary evil for most, you are of the worst breed. But you always deliver, brandishing your metal smile for the next guy, to baptize the wrongdoers and bleach out their sins.