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