Four Poems (March 20, 2009. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)
Dirt
Coal smoke rises warm,
then cools and walks
with a slow rolling gait.
when its oh-so-stoned eyes close,
it sleeps on the street
curled up in doorways
and alleys, back rows
of latched and bolted apartment homes.
The sun sweeps shadows
from corners and cracks,
leaps on the backs of buildings, and rides
across the plains of dust worn days.
Smoke is forgotten but grimes in the hides
of dope dealers, whores, confidence men
who wait for the night to creep back again.
Anti
His face would go red
sipping beer on Antabuse,
then later when he was getting his Prozac dosage figured out,
flush with the manic-phase rush of dopamine spilling
his brain like a bowl of writhing little snakes.
Makes you wonder what she finds,
his therapist with all her right questions
at all the right times until she learns to love
watching him flip flop
for the sheer agility of it.
A weave and spin behind the bad teeth
of that maniacal grin of his.
Still can’t believe he married his shrink
saved a lot of money I guess
full time treatment for full time craziness.
I even heard he quit drinking
but then, you hear anything
if you listen long enough.
Empties
Days ratchet by with a deliberate click,
and hiss: the sound of beer cans opening.
He writes, revises, licks postage stamps
juicy with glue, sends letter
after longing, pathetic letter: I miss you;
I wait; I am your personal cliché.
Alone on his little mountain,
He hears voices echo
from the valley of broken radios.
Screams twirl in the wind
like deranged swallows. At night
he seeks out the company of drunks,
comfort in their hollow touch,
women shrouded in wailing blue guitar.
He chooses one, follows her
home, enters her vacuous body,
leaves her sleeping with her laundry
like a semen crusted sock.
Gun Show
She stands at the roadside with a 12 gauge, pump action shotgun in her hands;
there’s a cardboard poster stuck to the barrel with tape; the sign reads $80. She
stands in the gravel with the gun-butt on her right hip, grips, keeps her index
finger extended past the trigger guard, the muzzle above her head. She stands
and swivels her shoulders to watch a car pass, driver and passenger’s eyes
fastened on her, the glint of blue metal in the sun.
She stands in jeans and smirks at disbelieving looks from passersby who
stare at her, then turn away, signal left for the interstate. She stands in leather
jacket and boots, half a glimpse of eye under the brim of a hat. A car pulls up on
the lot, sweeps its way toward her, stops; she bends over at the window, speaks
with the driver, walks to the other side and enters. The car hovers off with
the girl and the gun, leaves long strips of highway behind them; they are gone. |