Night falls in neon showers
Here in the nocturnal simmer of summer
slick city blacktops spark electric.
The juiced-up take to their cars,
pull into fast food haunts
where glazed eyes
return to two-way mirrors,
others fall without noticing
into a numb subliminal hum
an electric divining of something bad
to come.
An ear crawling buzz,
the static clutter of criminal minds
distorts the crests of overheated airwaves.
distant thunderheads pop like
galvanic mushrooms.
Light bulbs vanish
behind lighthouse eyes.
Under a canopy of magnetic shine
liquor stores promote a glow and fizzle,
a hissing power that backlight's
both beer can and bottle,
and we who drink
are thankful for the way
such strung-out needs carry us
in and out of our dreams
until, of course, as always,
a stark, accusatory dawn
jangles its steel-bright
jailhouse keys.
Stale milk sky,
traffic is trawling for any surfacing light.
Rubber squeaks on the smeared blacktops.
No hills to climb in this part of town
we are flat earth
and mostly just tilted into our daydreams.
Corner shops are damp and derelict
or heaving with low class crime.
Shadows pounce if you drop a dime.
Its a crawl through a gauntlet
no one runs here unless they flee.
The car radio is set to Fox News
we haven't seen a fox hereabout in years
only concrete cemeteries,
islands of amnesia
sprinkled with stone angels,
hidey-holes
where daytime hookers gather
to pray for better weather.
The season is warming up,
shirts will come off
then holes in the flesh
of babes in their beds will blossom red.
There will be no posters made,
for instant martyrs,
no outrage from politicians,
no edge of the seat television trials,
no protests or marches,
no 24/7 news cycles,
it will be just another day
for the metropolis near the bay.
People drink more
as the bodies pile up.
The rain is soft on the blacktops
blood more easily washed away.
The city is stale, ghost gusts on the lake
don’t make it to the shore,
where the still heavy air
continuous its threat of ignition.
Today and tomorrow
the guns will be warming up.
The dead are statistics -
roaming gangs of statistics
add to the deadly roll call.
It’s not all bad news
after several weeks
a child found her lost puppy.
Between the funerals
there are baby showers.
The city is doing just fine
if we close our eyes.
Night falls in showers
of neon, and the blacktops spark electric.
The town takes to its cars
and pulls into fast food joints.
People just sits there
in the lots smoking and razing
or just crying quietly and alone.
Other's gather in backyards to drink;
In the lulls between the talk-talk
they tune-in to the distant scuffle
of criminal minds
getting chased around
by sweating cops in their buzzing blues.
When the summer night seeps into our skin
it sings a thousand sad songs,
a velvety shine heals
lonely hearts and the joyful.
The liquor stores glow bright
long into the sleepless night
because we need them
even when we don’t need them,
but we like the way they
carry folks in and out of their
fitful dreams
like cups of cool water.
the edge of town arrives quickly
you hang an inscrutable left
only to discover
one beat-up clapperboard hulk
hanging over tall corn
as if time and land-wrecked it
or
you drive to the end of
a suburban tract
and while waiting for the lights
a blue wash of sky
paints out
the last inflatable swimming pool
the land becomes a swampy hollow
prone by a basking river
treads gets sticky
in pent up pockets of tarry sun
needles of flinty light
glitter the blacktops
the road has dropped you
beyond the town limits
now miles fly straight
bending only to the whims
of natural inclinations
the prim madam inside
your G.P.S.
takes a long nap
turning to your wife
or dog
you smile
acknowledging
that the edge of town
has once again been shattered
Most are related to shipwrecked ghosts,
accomplices of my blood
that can still be found
in geographically scattered albums.
When there were cities to occupy,
they lived one level below expectations.
Like defective fireworks, some went off early.
A more dedicated few grew old and medicated.
They built defunct railroads and dug ditches
they later fell into.
They were navigators of small shady schemes.
Their brief settlements and abrupt departures
left fuzzy lines on blacktops and concrete.
As a family, we are estranged and unknown,
but we do speak to our dead
if they come to call, of course
only after a respectable period
of life-long disinterest.
Yesterday the wind blew hard
branches now litter blacktops and lawns,
twigs crunch underfoot.
Minor damage
but this morning, neat suburbia
is a little ramshackle and shabby
the way infrastructure
turns shabby when chipmunks
gnaw their way through
to another hole,
or carpenter bees’ tunnel
or ants crumble caulking
into small untidy scruff.
It’s a day for a rain-proof slouch hat.
A day for surveying
what and which
fell prey to that blustery toss,
and what dodged (as if it could),
the glancing clout of the gales disorder?
I walk to the end of the avenue.
some walk in the opposite direction,
all of us
seeking small signs of downfall
the wind strewn and note-worthy.
We head home one by one
with our breathless tales,
a little swagger in our steps
very eager to report
not much at all.
halogens burn bright...
graze along blacktops at night
herd of deer take flight
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
one sided perception
a mirror reflection
feelings get penned
when I feel hemmed in
always the same direction
about a heart's inflection
rain that won't stop
and potholed blacktops
not looking for resurrection
or scattered affections
just looking to make sense
using a different tense
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