rain
ashes
dust
etched park benches
nails shredded from used memories
the smell like oil and chrome
the skull of a burnt down church
and the broken cross
like some native Indian totem
welded from abandoned railroad tracks;
old trains, forgotten shoes
and above the whispering of ghosts
in the flicker and flutter of crows
become blistering black and silver smoke;
old scars
rusted dead televisions
dismantled satellites, bicycles, beer cans crushed
the guts of mobile homes;
stolen, abused, alone
and Christ caged within
in dirty velvet sins like Elvis
mouth open, bleeding
prayers & disease
and all those dead screens all looking
out towards the lost desert and frozen highway;
empty miles, empty memories, empty malls
nowhere, neverwhere and tomorrow.
The framework of life inside
this wasteland museum
of what ‘if’ is made of
into water when it all boils over
as nature from sand into glass,
framed visions of monolithic statues;
and all things burn,
and the cold sun turns the apocalyptic sky
into silver-white cancer scars
and the clouds drip like mercury
dissolved emotions
all somewhat frayed and fuzzed-out,
into a spliced spectrum of primordial enigmas:
this bone-machine of hell’s reality
like a rabbit with its leg caught in a wire
that high-pitch thin electric scream
and the peeled bones of polished illusions;
the dark dreams darker with sweat, darkens us-
and some Judas standing there naked in his soul
in his soiled socks and stolen fear stained robes
walking from his footprints and the scars
blinking to wipe back the eyes
going down into the misplaced avenues
swimming thru the rivers
ghost memories, windshields
gardens of dislocated summers
missing flowers, holes, time;
looking for the mirrors
and just standing there
smoking cigarettes
and television;
standing there like stone
and, forgetting...

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