207 Readings


With Jack standing on the side of the Jersey turnpike,

freezing rain, frozen time spitting off the eighteen wheelers

screaming by us leaving discarded mufflers, red road kill

and always hubcaps strewn over the insane landscape

like no two alike snowflakes or the ballerinas in white,

alive in dreams where everything goes

all of it:  the car parts, horseshoes, sea anemones

apricot wheels, coral reefs, secrets we dare not

speak and who do you loves.

Jack liked to pick up the gold nuggets and gemstones

that fell off the black Cadillacs that never stopped.

He’d turn them into stars or girls playing hard to get

hard to keep, playing possum, turn them into sunny

days with a path leading across fields of glass,

I mean grass like when you’re hiking in the woods

and you come to open fields of hills and dales

and there’s a stream full of Jack’s gemstones.

Then suddenly it all falls apart

and you’re back in the black rain

fallen on the side of some turnpike

dreaming of cigarettes and rides.

Posted 01/14/14
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