| |
SheepSkin
This road is like many others.
Shop after shop providing products
I don’t know who would need.
Scattered with dingy motels
Advertising their vacancy
Over sounds of shattereing glass bottles,
And seedy diners where you take
someone you’ll never see again
and awkwardly eat undercooked food,
drink shitty coffee, and try not to make eye contact with
the waitress
or each other.
Half way down this road is a neon sign
That stands apart from the plethora that surround it.
It’s in the shape of an arrow,
Flashing – or maybe just about to burn out –
Pointing down a whisper of an alley
With the word “SHEEPSKIN”
Spelled with red capital lettersw.
And I am always tempted
In an unnerving, scratching way
To make a sharp right turn
To understand
Sheepskin as a novelty item.
Unless it’s a sign for something else.
Maybe some sadistic outlet
Where rejects and psychos
Can find solace and acceptance
Or some gluttonous tavern
Where men drink beer
And delight in carnivorous rituals
That women could never understand.
Whatever it means,
I always miss the turn
Until the Horizon
I don’t know if you jumped or stumbled
out of the train’s rickety sliding door
that we left open
so that the wind’s lullaby would stretch into the worn,
overstuffed booths
and lull us into serene dreams.
That dream twisted into shadows
and in a pulse, my body jolted awake.
I saw your skewed still figure
through the yellowed pain of the window
and reached above my head
pulling vigorously on the emergency brake.
The cord glossed through my clutched fingers
slicing through the skin like a paper cut.
Amazing how such a small incision
can hurt so damn much.
The iron machine shrieked to a standstill
as your rapid steps leave you
standing in front of me
capturing my elbows in your cupped palms.
I go to pull you back up into the car
but your feet stick to the damp grass underneath them.
The driver is screaming like hell
cursing wildly at the unnecessary stop
and you’re just looking into my eyes
in that stupid genuine way.
I don’t understand why you’re not getting on.
The train whistle eerily howls
and echoes condemningly through the cars.
I’ll unlatch the rear door,
ride the brake until the horizon,
and quietly hope you catch up.
Liquid Sounds
It’s obvious, just by looking at her
skin tinted an infected yellow and, having lost its
elasticity,
droops over the bones and sinks into her cheeks,
her straining eyes, bloated and bloodshot,
that pitifully attempt to focus on the circling stillness,
it’s obvious from the sweet stench
that steams out from her pores
that today held a hearty combination
of Sky vodka and white zinfandel.
Liquid sounds ooze from between her lips,
splash onto the math test I laid on the faux marble counter
and spill onto the wooden floor
stinging my small bare feet.
Ink markings that once spelled “Good Job”
in the crinkled corner of the damp page
gradually coagulate and smear away from each other
leaving a red stain in place of the disintegrated letters
that no longer have any meaning.
|
|
