Friday, October 28, 2011

Purple Dying-Town Shadows



Purple Dying-Town-Shadows

Old time electric chair on sale.

Speedy Sunday picture shows
whir in the tight back storage room
of an abandoned filling station.

Airport memory: the surgical procedure
to remove tulips from poets' lungs.

Cemetery stone inscription: Bootmaker.

Beyond the local bar,
a mile of highway
patched with lipstick-stained paper napkins.

Yes, I found painful inspiration
in a cut-glass volume of Turgenev's First Love.

Baby, I like how you walk around the house,
kids grown and gone,
with only a tattered, shrunken turtleneck sweater on.

A cow-calf pair grazes a small corn stubble field on Main Street.

I ain't never gonna be anything but love-hungry.

No cafe.  But old, crumbling photographs of a cafe.

Afternoon whiskey in a jelly jar,
a woman shouts,
The sun seem louder than normal today?

After the discovery of fire,
school administrators organized
the burial of fire.

Them big ol' cardboard boxes
of astro-lawn squares...
the ones they got stored
in the old hotel...
they got some kind a weird
glow-in-the-dark fungus.

Running without lights on,
a county sheriff's cruiser
drifts up dark Main Street
to surprise any graffiti-maniacal
kid with a spray paint.

Three-thousand people lived here
'bout the time of the last
public hanging.

Over a dozen cans of Eagle brand peaches acquire
dust in a locked cabinet at the old funeral parlor.

Wanderin' poet? 
Ought to be 'shamed a yourself
for that silliness.

At the back end of the graveyard,
a rusty shovel in sagebrush.

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