Newlyweds. In bed. Sleeping. The crash will take them from their dreams. Half an hour from now. When the fissure opens in the earth that would devour me. And drunk. I am careening (out of control). Across four lanes of traffic. The burning headlights. The blur and swerve of tail lights. Street lights. Neon. My wife. Of fourteen years. The decision made. The divorce all but final. The velocity of life is the thing that will get you. The trouble between us. Yellowed the wallpaper like nicotine. Yellowed my teeth, jaundiced and jaded my eyes. Tainted everything. "But still I loved her." The last swallow of whiskey. The bartender cannot be persuaded. The groom presses his body against his bride. He enfolds her. Sleeper's hand finds sleeper's hand. He holds her. Soft body. Cool fingers. Her hair lies about her. Long, silk ribbons. The blue light of the moon. On the ceiling. Cars passing on the widened avenue are slices of light. Sliding. Down dormer walls. Round corners. Over the bed like angels. Hovering. I am an accident. Waiting. At sixty miles an hour. To happen. Bouncing over the medium. A crystal ball. The glass of the headlamps can see the future. Crashing a gate. Bright white. Freshly painted. Decorated with the bride's proud stencil. "Our first home." Then nothing. They are in pajamas. Police called. Slow to suffocate. My own blood. The young bride is crying. My own wife. When she hears it. Will feel nothing.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
28 June 2011
02 October 2010
Come Saturday Morning
"In the future, there will be miracles,"
so they say, "Modern medicine
will find a way to save you."
Thus advised, I try to salvage
this body from the wreckage, the glass,
the steel, the engine parts that hiss
and spit the burning oil. The horn
wore out the battery, splattering
the night with mud, and then the blood-
red leaves of the sycamore. The burning
stare of the Impala's headlamps, they too
empty into the darkness, are gone
by morning. Not I, however. Half-living,
I am placed on ice, suspended animation,
as if suddenly, somebody here has decided,
"You are too old now to spend Saturday
mornings watching Saturday morning cartoons."
so they say, "Modern medicine
will find a way to save you."
Thus advised, I try to salvage
this body from the wreckage, the glass,
the steel, the engine parts that hiss
and spit the burning oil. The horn
wore out the battery, splattering
the night with mud, and then the blood-
red leaves of the sycamore. The burning
stare of the Impala's headlamps, they too
empty into the darkness, are gone
by morning. Not I, however. Half-living,
I am placed on ice, suspended animation,
as if suddenly, somebody here has decided,
"You are too old now to spend Saturday
mornings watching Saturday morning cartoons."
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