Stoking The Dream Machine
by Gabriel Magno
the rocking horse stood idle, the tricycle had rusted,
the grown up children had their share, and now are well adjusted.
Virginia mountains’ hollows, filled with dirt poor children playing,
in blue jeans stained with red mud, as grandmas sat crocheting.
the knock-kneed mailman suffers, as he walks through Winter’s blizzards,
the hobos near the railroad track, place bets and race their lizards.
the last train passing through, arrived at noon from Corpus Christi,
with sailors who had made a run, to barrooms serving whisky.
and me I’m passing time, as I try hard in understanding,
how crows atop the mayor’s car, did such a perfect landing.
here comes the ice cream truck, the silver bell is ringing,
the children playing in the park, drag feet to stop their swinging.
In droves the town folks came, to see the tiny tight rope walker,
the ticket seller smiles, as ladies swoon to this fast talker.
the bluebird circles in the air, to gather monarch butterflies,
If this a dream I’m floating in, I hope and pray it never dies.
in the dim and dismal barrooms
of my dark and distant past i sat
drinking cheap misery as i listened
to songs of lying lovers,? ?cheaters,
broken hearts and pedestrian pain
all those songs,? ?i named them
and i claimed them as my own
converted the words to portraits
in my mind;? ?each one i framed
then took it home with me
in my heart i viewed each repeatedly
and reveled in self-revelation that
not a single one had been written about me
and that pain down in my heart
the emptiness and fear that kept me
bound and chain in cuffs and fetters
so many others had felt it too
that knowledge somehow made it better
So never once did i have to cry
not out? ?in the open,? ?for others to see
i'd just play those songs,? ?and sing along
and let the jukebox cry for me.
I wait in all the crummy
little barrooms of the soul.
I look about and sniff the air,
drink, and wait.
In the demi-world of honky-tonks,
which vie against night's
inner gloom, beneath mantles
of thick smoke, pinches,
slurred speech and propositions,
I leer drunkenly about,
swimming in the haze
of my heebie-jeebies.
I wait.
After the smoke clears away
and the honky-tonk tones die,
when the scraggy light of the
morning after spreads, mustily,
across the floor,
I wait.
After the hangover,
after the aching head, glazed eyes,
belches, and specks
which move around my head in circles,
I see a different sort of light:
A flatter sort.
In the sordidness,
ergo filthy waxy sawdust on the floor,
I have seen a conjuration
which I sought.
But soon it disappears
and will not come again.
Illusion slips from mind
with lifting drunkenness
and break of sensibility
and pain creeps in which
is not merely physical.
Oh well.
I must try again tomorrow night.
There will always be another night.
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