Rumbling

The field full of regular hours. The strain of exposure to sunlight stark and unfiltered. It’s got me down, debased, debauched, and drunk with stolen beatitude. The scarecrows keep me kin—and if cock robin is not in Caracas I’m illiterate and a fool. I was once king of the parking lots—a Chevy Chevelle SS/Mean Green/Buffed/Original Bench/454. Now I toil reading books—a dark a maw as any I can imagine. Nights of endless darkness, stars blotted out by the coal fires—there’s an endless vein of anthracite burning below. I mind the horizon line for the crows coming to pick me clean. I could buff chrome to a blinding sharpness on that Chevelle once, and now I watch for smoke coming out of monticules of a mean, mean earth. I am the master of what I survey, but keep the crows away of my sagging yellow skin. The days are no better than the nights on this tilted land. The land. It wont stop rumbling.

“The baby is born.
The baby is put in a toy car.
The baby drives to work.”

— Garth Simmons / Hole Punch