2 September 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 3
Tar Pit, Freight Train
I. Tar Pit
Feet sinking in the Wal-Mart parking lot, walls thick and soft
as mattresses crawling up. Windproof, soundproof, dizzy
from the world buzzing around, hummingbirds hovering
to see how much sweetness they can get before the cup
dries up, red liquid spilling to soak into the ground.
A Mastodon watching its horizons slowly sink past eyes
bagged from too many fitful nights, days spent out of work
hiding in bed or roaming the store, buying anything to slow
descent into numbness. There will be no artifacts, no bright
archeologist collecting clippings for finding bones or hair
or bits of befuddled brain; what there is is all there is.
II. Freight Train