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436 Miles West of Blackstone


436 miles west of blackstone
two trips to a bathroom

upon celery green walls
nestled between flecks of peeling paint & trash can scratches,
I learn that for a good time
you can call marjorie at 670-6918.
and she, for one time only
will hand deliver goodness to your floor.

tonight is a jim morrison kinda night
with the moon all done up in dreads,
toking on a hog leg,
exhaling easily through the haze.

it's a break on through kinda night
mixed with the burning hair of an la woman

I hear bad asses
from every street corner
rev their tiny engines in a string of primal screams,
beats on the chest : I am man. I can drive and squeal tires.
I can handle any motherfucking curve on two wheels.

somber sonic waves of high pitched horse power
rumble through me
as I feel every stringy hair on my head
defy gravity.

just outside the reach of a streetlamp,
strangers laugh mockingly
in repertoire similar to
the strutting rooster

two prancing men fluff their feathers,
flex their pecs &

circle
just circle

an invisible diameter.

humor, I swear
runs cold in this town
as greasy head after greasy head
slinks darkly around the corner.

chasing jesus across the walk,
I realize the blues have never been as solid
as in the eyes of men 18-25,
who have spent a lifetime
with numbed fingers and dull needle,
sewing together
painfully,

the seams of broken skin.

and it's one, two, three trips to the bathroom
as I pass these men like a daisy,
slinging 'He loves me.  He loves me not."
from each bounce of my wide
( he can spread my hips wide )
baby making, toddler packing
brown paper grocery bag toting

hips.

Crouched in a lonely stall,
I learn my second lesson of the day.

Here, I am assured, that love in this town will last.
( and goddamn, how I need it to last.)
Evidently love in this town is eternal
because Debbie hearts Tom 4-ever.

And I'm sure that she does.
In the way you love a man
so completely
that pillow over nostril
over mouth and teeth
seems a better fate
than tortured, restless sleep
and interrupted dreams.

And I'm sure that blank white glaring walls
intensify Debbie's love.

making it all too clear
that yes, her love will last forever...
that yes, her 16 year old heartbreak
will permanently breathe
in the trace of a seven inch long scar
running cross country along the back
of her thigh.

32 small white dots...
and staples
and staples

And I feel vague discomfort in knowing that
even though Debbie loves Tom 4-ever,
she will spend a lifetime
holding herself in the silent spots.

Somehow it seems more poetic
(smeared red ink on celery walls IS poetic.)
and moving,
scrawled on this rough metal
than plasterd & pasted on midnight skies
(broken yellow tissue paper stars
spell out...

Debbie hearts Tom 4-ever.
Yes,  Debbie hearts Tom 4-ever.
Yeah...Debbie haunts Tom 4-ever.)

And holy shit, I believe this girl just may be right.

but yeah,
this is a Jim Morrison kinda night...
and in the distance,
four hundred thirty something miles
west of Blackstone,
little miss Marjorie, the always do good girl
is, I suppose, letting his (not knowing who that may be.)
goodness slip through her hands

while Debbie, who will forever love Tom,
rocks furiously back and forth
huddled innocently against sanitized walls.

And I sit
and pace
and smoke

430-something miles west of nothing
in a town too familiar
to be home.

Waiting on a greyhound
with my suitcase in hand
trying not to think of the boy
with too much casualty in his eyes,
I wash my face mildly
with cool water,
letting it trickle small rivers
down the cracks
of my empty hand.

Reaching my third epiphany of the day,
I exhale and turn.



I don't have to love you to be a saint.
436 miles is not the distance to heaven.

and yes, I was wrong.

Jesus sandals didn't make you God.

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