Drfiting

The mechanical heart, welded from extinct locomotives
Purges fiery wings from its valves and arteries.

All this in memories like tar and softened, footloose windowsills of time.
Where was I? Black rocks in my boots,
The bed of ancient lake and the dust of downed meteorites,
Now a suburban sprawl like greedy steel hand.

Skimming like a smooth button of trousers unnameable.
Stacks of linens, just well-pressed affairs, soiled ambitions
And truant cares. Balls of lint and electricity deep in the
Cave of my navel and some gypsy cleave.

A stowaway, desperate for a snapped crowbar, a break from the
Production line.
A job in a bean tin warehouse, ‘frijoles!’ Jazz release at night and quarts of
Cheap whiskey and sometimes takeaway
Downtown and steaming far from New Orleans.
Casual.

Just another poisoned paper cup chalice in the industrial labyrinth
Of cogs and meaningless maniac machinery,
Chewed up by the decaying teeth of cheap addictions.

(When Hank on a stool met the stare of Daisy holding a jug of coffee in the Fat Cat Diner, like two star crossed guppies, sad fish with sagging skin, something lecherous was born above the stained apron and name badges. Retiring to a cave in the fish tank, they made mechanical non-love on the passion devoid, the non-bed creaking like a toothless Cajun’s rocking chair and non-hope was shared in the non-light of day. Cigarettes. Salty silver light dilutes, car horns and sirens peeling off into the non-scape mingle with crackled sax and skiffles. Hank reflects that skyscrapers are gangs of loveless digits stretching into the limitless greed and folly born of the non-Men. Something had been poisoned but the thought of charcoal purity was too intoxicating. The ether awash with despairing glitches. Hangover grips, bone weary, deep and nauseous tyrant, hot pokers for eyes. Phones tapped. Tap drips. Cigarette drunk. Watery vomit. Kiss. Lets hit the highway, see where we can’t go in the Nontagon Infinitum.)

“Cuba Libre!” the landlord cried
With eye bags like a communists punch bag.
Our heroes left before dawn in the back
Of a farmers pick up heading to Venus, Illinois
And a single brush sweeps past the cat, clouds of red dust jump the porch onto the bed of that ancient lake which hides the fragments of meteors beneath the hills that some locals still call the sleeping woman.

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1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Carol said,

    Lee you are a marvel!!!


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