my body has an asphalt aroma.
i'm idle and my fuel tank,
a shot glass, is in the gutter.
is set with elbow,
fist on cheek, book
of cracked pages.
i watch this scene on the wall of my skull:
my brain, a clod of tendrils in search of a plot.
there is no place to root
in the exposed isolation of the road,
a dead ringer for the physics of chaos.
the shade of an oak is a collective memory.
i glow metallic in the ultra-violet sun.
i've hit a possum and the road, built
with no regard for obstacles,
continues its tail-pipe regret for the shy and blind.
drone of tires rolls out mother's predator pie:
a recipe for chainsaws and parking lots
to expand the rush hour of denial
and shorten the proximity
of stand-up comedian to botched executions.
once deflated, roadkill reveals its broken bones.
unable to stand, life continues
in the crawl of maggots.
may 17, 2014
Poetry has the last word.