Monday, March 09, 2009

thought dream 030709

What the clowns are unable to articulate
we look for in the cry of distress from the harmonica,
the warning signal on the runway, a clanging

buoy in the ocean at night, the men
washed overboard in the storm vanishing
one by one into the dark water. I have saved

all my kisses, provided a detailed analysis
of our ecstatic mechanisms, and shuffled off
in shame when you asked my true name,

the one hidden underneath the glowing letters
on the surface. Man, listen to that pedal steel.
Ralph Mooney tearing holes in the sideboard of time.

From Hawaiian paniolos to this unreal honky tonk
in the back of my head. The Devil's in here.
Somewhere. Hiding in the smoke. I can smell

his sulphur breath. Hear the clicking of his teeth,
the squishing rat squeak of his viral heart. Whatever
I am, the fiddle knows. And the fiddle never lies.

My hand unsteady. My heart clocking backwards.
My DNA configured for slipping on the ice.
My lonesome wail growing fainter every day

as that freight train loaded down with drunken
sailors and broken dreams pulls out of the station
and disappears over the hill into the valley below.

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