mother’s hairpins wait
patiently
in worn, loose clumps
for her to pick through and use
over and over, night after night
it seems to be the same
she, by the bathroom counter
day after day
twirling her fine, grey hair
around thin, frail fingers
and so expertly done, too
without a thought
her dim eyes stare
into a dim mirror that reflects
her lined, aging face
once young and beautiful
she creates curls
as she stands
alone
2/23/2022
I
The metallic clunk
of intervals between voices -
cognizant cogs drive fluctuations
like ducks crossing a road.
I tilt away from
the coils of your being,
your sounding.
I see you speaking,
twirling
like a spinning six pence
in the rush of
on-coming traffic.
II
Together, we want
the same chromed leverage.
Knuckles cracked
where handles mash.
Long unused gears crunch
inside flesh filled leather, we
creak and stretch
over old maps.
Pushed against one another,
leaning in, until hinges unclasp,
we ride the hairpins,
spring-loaded instants
cream the road.
A clockwork hallelujah
that all ends in silence.
I dreamt I awoke in a 1939 Buick
as it sped into the 40’s,
a decade depleted of running boards.
I wondered
how could tommy-gun wielding
gangsters appear historically relevant
without running boards?
Running boards mark an era
the way hats do.
Then I thought, what the hell
I’m in a 1939 Buick
so every tommy gun toting punk
better watch out
running boards or not.
Some classic cars do that,
you take on their vintage persona.
The 39 is a cool car,
Humphrey Bogart drove one.
He had a 38 special also
and knew how to use it.
When you get to where Bogart has gone
(a star in a greater Hollywood story)
the right car is important.
You must drive the 39
like you’re in a movie
where monochrome fog
makes the hill roads
and their hairpins tricky.
When the road ends
stand with one foot on the running board
until a camera flash
goes off with a flare and a pop.
Pose
while you light a cigarette
tip your fedora at a slant,
and grin like a tough guy.
Struggle
Hobbes
Move along,
Down the line.
Sing their song,
So Sublime.
Inch by inch,
Forward still.
It's a cinch,
Fire at will!
Load your gun,
Ammo pack.
Break a run,
Don't look back.
Heroes must
Never fall,
Love or lust,
Lose it all.
Use your might,
Lose your mind.
Blindly fight
What you find.
No one's right,
Same old grind.
Future sight
Must be blind.
Passion sets
Hearts ablaze.
Place your bets,
Final phase.
Wheels turn,
Hairpins click.
Let them burn,
Light the wick.
Troubled soul,
Calls for help.
Gunshot hole,
Silenced yelp.
Bravery;
Nothing new.
Slavery;
Tried and true.
Locked away,
Tossed the key.
No more say,
Never free.
Time is hard,
Winding slow.
Minds are scared,
Grudges grow.
Face to face
In the sand.
Fill the space,
Final stand.
Battle cry,
Drop 'em dead.
Binds to tie,
Made of lead.
Raise the flag,
Cased in hay.
Light a ***,
Fire away.
Freedom burns,
Liberty.
A nation yearns
To be set free.
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