Replay of crash-trance...
bloody-face dry creek bed stumble:
imagine slow flight of nightbirds,
distant stars transformed into Greek masks.
Or a stripper emails you a grainy
color snapshot of her weekend self
slipping off stage in what remains
of float-away sapphire gauze.
Center pivot irrigation water
pooled on dark blacktop...
light-grey concussion: you find yourself
tangled in one barb wire fence after another.
Red-washed cement blocks piled
high enough to make a neon-grease motel.
Room 8 has a sheet metal sign on its thin
pressed-wood door: Intimacy Dances Here.
Hoot of an on-time freight train,
weeping funeral guests tossing
rice at one another, idle Emo kids
at a parents-gone wrist-slit party.
A windy stretch of lonesome road,
farmyard light every couple of miles,
blue-pillow Cowboy Junkies music:
roses through a Caddy's rusted floorboard.