Crawling Under Cars
In the sky
blue is the rule
of wave-particle bounce.
It's the back-and-forth nuance I miss from you...
in our day-to-day movement's kiss—curl—punch—suck.
On the ground
the fallen tumble bucks rule.
Though it looks nothing but clutter crazy
the crumble-crust rushes over moister stuff
like skin, scars, and hair over blood, guts, and brains.
It's the same under here--
hard people full of soft potential
dodging bullets, bugs, bad tidings, and tantrums
by crawling under cars, parked by gods or god-serfs.
Their sad machines are an invariable breed for the future.
From the backseat, you speak words of love
but leave out the consistent actions of love.
The crucial dual mechanism (of love & thought)
between axle-end and wheel-hub—missing--
keeps our car from moving forward--
stall, rust, degrade, tumble bucks fallen.
the crumpled wrapper swimming gutter creeks in winter
and reflecting our sky blue void in summer--
melts as car motors echo all around our rusty edges.
The sunlight is dying quickly under bumpers
as we crawl on knees, toes, hands almost blind.
Here, under cars, your lips' rough ruby reflection is a reminder
of maps, driving times, backseat bundles, and white-trash coolers
on the long road east for our first date—jumping off cliffs
or rolling hospital halls, backside to a trolly bed, too small.
Here, under cars, maybe they won't notice me for all the fallen tumble bucks
passing time as soft potential wastes us all and bugs bomb bullets
for rights to our treasured skins.
O. Hunt's Bloodless Coup Realized
are no longer robbed by strangers
while dressed as nuns,
or in masks of dead presidents.
Caper costumes and getaway cars
are now online auction items,
resold at garage sales;
round yellow stickers peeling up
in St. Louis.
during teleportation jumps.
blood and marrow,
forget them where they lie.
you don't need a monocle
banks are robbed
from on High.
And all things
with positive potential
have an equal
runs a small daycare
in Boise, Idaho.
This is the
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from the aether.
floating in white wispy dress
caring for toddlers.
in a devilish profile blurb
at Bear Parade.
A false statement,
if ever one was read in the light,
reveals more than it conceals.
a true statement,
read with a false heart...
Oh, I never wonder anymore.
In St. Louis,
there's a Safeway store
with perfectly parked
in this case,
And the perfectly parked
“Because one baby is like any other baby”.
mother's talk about
black bear traps
while polishing their
And those babies
move from the
just to find...
and in find-
of aether and
“runs a small
in Boise, Idaho.”
Then the jest
and leaving an
empty version of
in the bounds of
her tabular image
The Cabinet of I. Unknown
Ishmael, I'm fixated on the guns again;
wondering if anyone's every complimented you
on your very nice rack.
One rifle looks like it was carried by Clint Eastwood
in a movie about a general-purpose western town
surrounded by sagebrush and conveniently located
Another long barrel, with scope and protruding nipples
methodically centered under the stock, and under the butt,
reminds me of my ex-wife—wooden and stout.
Then there's the shotgun; neither the type carried by
riot police, nor the zombie slayer sawed-off pistol grip...
no, it's an all-day hunter. Barrel, long like a giraffe's neck…
if a giraffe could blow a giant hole
through your chest from across the street.
From the urban, upper-floor window we've all haunted
at least once in our vacant, silly, vulgar lives, you aim.
And a flash of hunter's orange, as the sunlight hits you,
is the only warning on the street below.
Of all the guns in your ornate cabinet, none of these
mere civilian rifles are my favorite item, no; it's behind
a hidden panel on the backside, a magnificent weapon,
the hand-forged harpoon head from your epic sailor days.
Before the big wars, the bigger bomb, and the computer
your bareheaded noggin roamed the streets of seaside towns
fighting the frustrations, the isolations, the sparks of genius.
It was your growing urge to tip their hats—off, off, off
compelling you to the docks that has carried forward
in all the minds, and all the hands, of all the heroes
who've heard the Other Voice swimming with their own
in the darkest waters, at the clearest depths.
Off, off, off… to the sea, to the sea… before you snap;
before you POP the heads of strangers
from an upper-story window.
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