"Springtime in the Village of Bruised Statues" by Jason Heroux

The flowers are trying to strangle each other.Earlier today I heard a voice on the sidewalk.I kicked it for a while then put it in my pocket.“When we die we will stop like combs caughtin long tangled hair that isn't there,”the little voice in my pocket says.The statues develop strange bruises.In the meantime handfuls of moneyfly from tree to tree singingat the top of their lungs,handfuls of money swimin the poisoned pink lake.