Monday, November 14, 2011

A Running Break to Try to Get Away



A Running Break to Try and Get Away

The faces of wolves flicker in a pewter-black storm sky.
Orange slices, cube of cheddar, whiskey for dinner.

Someone told me, but I lost track of the number
of out-of-gas pickups abandoned in Death Valley.
Missing blow-dried people.  Errant statistics.
Or... the yawp of Vegas showgirls receiving intermission roses.

I daydream in the face of emails.
Disposable cameras and broken cowboy heartbreak-bones
nursed with whiskey on the highway bypassing a sour
burn barrel of a motel with a huge plastic buffalo out front.

The party-hard girl in a tissue-thin white lace dress
tosses a crooked grin, You ain't an altar boy type, are you?
Graveyard gates as ash piles, drought-thirsty cattle on loading day,
transient scented-candle girls: decades of jerked beef and biscuits.

It's the quiet of a thin old man selling heads of lettuce
in the cracked parking lot of a farm supply store,
crescent moon bruises on his face and scrawny arms.
If paradise is forty miles of grassy barb wire fence line,
a can of Copenhagen, a horse familiar with Hoyt Axton lyrics....

It's the way Beaver, Utah, looks like heaven at summer dusk,
clean motel room and a dusty Main Street pawn shop,
if you've driven alone from Ely through a thunderstorm,
crystal blue-ghosts at lonesome Frisco Peak.

The word Today arrives road-bitten bloody.

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