Bent and Beat

reading of fires i should have known about
places i know but have never seen
reduced to ash and cinder
and so many insurance forms

the rain is a tease
she licks at the city
lightning tongues
then lets loose a moan
thunder tremble
her breath is cool upon my skin
as she hovers weightlessly above
her passion withheld
drifting on by

the dying light upon a dead man's bridge
a world of brown things named for white
rock and dirt and scraps they found
the leftovers
they tossed to those they
chased and trampled
into the desert scrub
of their barren culture
and now the children sing
tribal songs
about looney tunes
nasal call and response
set to a primordial rhythm
that sweeps my heartbeat along with it
across the dusty canyon floor
and carves deep scarifying gorges into my mind

a holy day in a nowhere place
a place between places that matter
motor saints in an oval coliseum, third turn lions,
a city awash in high test fuel, cheap booze
and
ignorance of a world crashing outside the Speedway
Around the track
I met my father after thirteen years
then brought my daughter, and found I didn't care
and put illegal poker machines in windowless taverns in time for the race fans

Subtle little fractal crackfingers, seemingly random chaos coalesecing into form, patterns, and circumstance.

I woke up on the wrong side of today, yesterday.
Which is, extraordinarily, becoming the norm.

We are stuck
upon the wet pane
under a yellow umbrella
the pouring sky and amber headlights wash over us

I know this old test pilot
as tall and lean as a Saturn V
and just as obsolete
he pumps himself full of 80 proof fuel
sitting on an aged, cracked vinyl launchpad
elbows against the stained gantry
escaping the gravity of sobriety
orbiting the failures of his life, trying to get a better view
until mission control passes over the avocado phone call from his wife
the receiver crashes loudly
and he staggers to my end of the bar, smoking upon
re-entry
he calls me Ace and asks for a ride home
as always, i oblige
i drive him out towards his mobile home in the desert
on the edge of town
for the first half of the recovery he brags
about earthrise, meeting the president
about dehydrated meatloaf and of all of the Tang he used to get
but then he falls silent, eyes on the clear blue sky overhead
watching the wispy contrails of passing jets fade into nothingness
I pull into the long and dusty driveway
and his wife waits there, pacing in front of their aluminum capsule
and with relief in her eyes she escorts him to his bed
followed by their cats and dogs, a fallen hero's parade.

There is a merchant downtown who has, after carefully scanning to make sure that we were alone in his shop, twice offered to sell me a ray gun. Twice, perhaps three times. And on another occasion, has attempted to sell me a massive tome bound in the skin of an eighteenth century harlequin.

Sometimes, when you are the only person in the house who is not Asian, you get tired of noodles.

We found a scrawny black dog, or he found us, came wagging up to us, perhaps lured by the smell of simmering pork escaping the open door. I called him Taco. He came inside as I counted the till, left as i locked the door, and hurried off into the night as a faraway voice shouted his true name.

I dream of India so much lately, i have begun to fear that my dreams are being outsourced to a more receptive mind.

Even the moon falls, she said and looked away. He had no idea what she meant, and went back to sleep.

She said take three weeks
And fifteen hundred dollars
And don't let the door hit you in the ass.
And I am getting that Uncle Ronnie feeling again
Shit, Old Hoss, I thought i'd grown well past all of that.
But our circumstances are like echoes that sound and reverberate throughout our lives, and reality can repeat itself like dreams.
And as in dreams at times there is nothing we can change.
We have but to endure it.
Again.

i lay in the darkness of nothing to say
listening to the tick of running out
touched only by the dying scent of your perfume

Lost:
One well used and worn self.
Last seen somwhere between Highway 65 and Higway 97.
Warning: may be confused, hostile.
Please contact poster if found.

Even though his mother was an actual whore, the boy never once heard nor saw her getting fucked, by anyone. Which says a hell of a lot, really, I mean, can many people say that they have never had to suffer either laying in our chilhood beds and hearing our fathers do ungodly things to our mothers or, worse yet, walking in on her straddling him? And for the son of a working girl? That is pretty upright parenting, I should say.

She handed me brushes and palette
and said
"Paint me a rainbow"
so i painted a picture of every day i had ever known her
She crinkled her nose up at it, squinted her eyes to investigate
at last, her face drew into a wide smile, giggling
"Oh, i get it."