And while we two were left for the cleaning
Lady through a sweet chocolate parting gift
Of croutons over red wine. A job well
Done. And candied marmalade orange rind.
Willie Nelson had run off with a whipped
And runny cocoa-anything. Although
Mushrooms followed ribs and the magically
Unopened case of Bud light folded meat,
He could take the cream explosions while
Having to hear the tone deaf bursts of song.
The bursts of song that made him think that his
Womanly long hair gave him Sampson like
Strength in the musical arts. Without art.
Without strength. Without a musical ear.
Waiting sharp and shiny on the forked end.
To stop thinking to the next good line. The
Darkness of the trek to your car was made
Even blacker by the blinding of the
Field lights through the choke of leaves in the trees.
Take off your God goggles and succumb to
The wispy lip of Mister Five O’clock’s
Geedunk van stalking neighborhood streets in
Search of unsuspecting children mostly
Reclaimed by a belief in a Christian life.
To understand a text. To believe that
You know the world. To understand that a
Cigar is just a cigar except when
It doesn’t jive well with your narrative.
You flap for open water to give you
Enough speed for your low angled assent.
The fluorescing against the unexposed
Film. And the new chemical exposure
Of early childhood impaled below
You. And the hallucinations to save
Yourself and the end of the Indian
Summer. And poetry is the last thing
Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting
Imagery in an elegant poem. To
Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.
And attempt similar tactics to hear
The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.
The path that turned sharp into the darkness.
Inherent guilt and inherent bias.
Injecting Novocain to the nation.
The perpetual spinning of white blades
Pushing forward currents of air panning
Back and forth over the lying bodies.
To dry you to a rigid leather of
Submission. To hollow out and wear you
Like a butcher’s smock, a pair of boots, and
Elbow length gloves. To puppet you through the
Motions of control. To cull dissenters
Like so much chaff among the wheat. Like so
Much grist for the mill. Like so much meat for
Sausage. Spiced, cured, and smoked to be served on
A toasted roll with sauerkraut and Swiss.
The quality of the light through the clouds
Blessing the trees softening the shadows
And lightening the green in the outer
Layer of leaves like the holy light of
The virgin mother. You were, vestiges
On the golden age of highway. The life
Of watered ice and liquored drink. Lights on
In the house abutting a busy street
Pocket. Over the bumpy road, threadbare.
Angry Japanese lanterns red in the
Window lit straight to the street beyond the
Road reflecting in pink. Beyond the
Weedy hill of the crack and gravel drive.
Beyond the utility of a knife.
Pulling nails like deconstruction. Now that
He couldn’t bail out they pick an abstract
Word interpreted without the intent
Of breaking a bone. The point of the bent
Nail menacing. The rusted nail like an
Old scythe found in the tall grass. A symbol
Of Death reaping souls. The old rusted nail
In need of a hammer. The bent scythe a
Sickle and hammer on a field of red
Rust. Pulling nails from an old board as the
Soviet Union reaping souls. Chopping
Down the tall grass of the capitalist
World. Red on the nail as blood in the streets.
Violent revolution against fascists.
One word prompted a nebulous mix of
What would turn out to be little more than
Waking to his childhood. He’d realized
That the people responding pushed him up
Lifting two years after the small rock shook
Him now that it shot out from the homemade
Salsa. An entire bag full under
His front right wheel. Like the flat side too fast
To bail now that he was a fruit. A red
Pepper that you buy from the store. Still in
Great shape for his age. Now that there was one,
Out there was the gap that would catch the wheels
And a few clouds to darken the after-
Noon. Send him flying into a blind rage.
The red iron smell of the dried wood tongue
That had been burned against the heat like the
Sweet jalapeños. As if the gap between
The bushes of peppers and his cover
In growing of the grass hasn’t brought down
Layered insects, you ask him, what does it
Mean? He responds: does your house have curtains?
Now tell me, if you can, what do they mean?
In so many ways, he had given in
Adorned like stained glass in a Catholic
Church. He had taken on the mantle of
Post-modernism. Now, he was of the
Neighborhood garden. Pushing up lifting
The front of a word so malleable.
The blackening pigment of his skin. The
Filigree he wears like a policeman’s
Blanket to cover his nakedness. To
Be taken like an abstract hieroglyph
Imbedded in the interior walls
Of the great pyramid. Painted in the
Old way. Chiseled in to mix blood and ash
As mortar to hold the panes of stained glass.
To shed light colored in the dust and sand
Of tradition. To guide him along to
The afterlife. His exterior all
Weather coating guaranteed for life
And then some. More than just illustrated
Parchment for you to judge him as a book.
The fear of living by the college. The
Fear of living in a community
Of liberal values. The fear of the
Black and white stripes of anger on short shocks
Of pink and blue hair. Their words with eyes like
Zombies devouring the last scraps of
Rational thought. To go without a prompt,
They could use a word like yellow strips on
Patterned walls when they look into the glow
Off their dog whistle virtue signaling.
They brought it all back to his time before.
The path and the word were concrete instead
Of just the first plank on the path to the
Fear he used to ride when he was a kid.