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Inside A ‘72 Econoline

This old green van has a musty smell to it,
Like a pair of sweaty rancid socks
Mixed with half-empty beer cans.
It’s a banged up thing, this ’72 Econoline.
Scratches and mysterious dents 
Cover its façade,
Like boils on a hairless mastodon.
A spare tire rests under the torn carpet,
Bearing testimonies of premeditated audacities.
But it’s a clean driving machine,
This green econoline,
As it glides loudly, unnoticed
Under the ubiquitous stars.

Music by Townsend and Daltry 
Assaults our senses with barbed bullets,
Sent outward and beyond electric space,
Like teenage belches lost forever
Within a forgotten alcoholic haze.
And there we were, she and I 
Surviving, as victims of desire, 
Our naked statuary embedded, 
With perfumed skin and green blood, 
And we, then pure and free,
Cried hysterically and uncontrollably, 
Inside a wilting wasteland 
Of dark and desperate pleadings.

“Hey, I like your eyes, 
And the touch of your skin.
Let’s cozy up here.
We can hold on to each other
On top of this foul shag.
Victor’s Econoline smells bad, 
Don’t ya think?
Soon we’ll be sleeping on the sand, 
And breathing fresh air again.”

She is the silly blue-eyed blond 
From the higher-up back hills.
He is the skinny laughing dog 
From the lower-down flat lands.
Their caressing fingers 
Now silently disappear,
Under enveloping layers
Of rayon, nylon and polyester,
Hiding their blood-crazed probings,
Inside the ’72 Econoline,
As it glides loudly, unnoticed
Under the ubiquitous stars.

“Press your thumb against mine now.
Let’s mesh our dirty minds 
Into one remarkable embrace;
Shhh, silence now, 
No words are needed.”

Rubbing flesh here and there,
Atop their striped beach towel, 
Ensconced in the dank darkness,
The skinny dog and the silly blond 
Find tortured bliss
With groping fondness,
While breathing and stirring
As one rolling organism,
Plied to remain motionless,
In the emasculating upheavals 
Of bootleg love; they remain
In constant retrograde,
Their consuming margins of ascendance,
Seeking and spiraling there,
Like flowered temple dancers on fire!

We must ask,
“Will it play in Peoria?
What is it about your empty gazes,
Your nothing stares, 
That are as dry as the wind at noon?
Shh, you don’t have to say a word.
You don’t have to say anything at all.”

This old green van stinks to highest heaven,
And Victor knows this, 
But nothing is to be done about it.
Nothing.
His sweaty socks will stay put here.
Those beer cans will rest easy for another six months.
The days and nights of 1973 will roll on by,
Inexorably so, and 
This ’72 Econoline will continue to spew out
Outrageous odors,
As it glides loudly, unnoticed 
Under the ubiquitous stars.
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