The cars are too loud

original poetry & images

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Susurrus of vehicles flowing past
and away, away to other places
that other vehicles make ruckuses past
where other birdsong is drowned in anxiety
where other dragons swim in the heart's volcano.

You that come to me as a discordant epiphany:
I can feel you through concrete;
I sense your intention without temperatures.
Hold still while I button your cloak;
I must brace you against the storm
conjured by furnaces with their
portable sonicbooms.

You in the wrinkle and the slackless aged,
seen lacking in youth unhurried
that never finish crossing the street.

I almost say what I feel and refrain three times,
now the chosen one's betrayal is upon my extremities
like the static of a too-soft blanket
over skin, flesh over bone:

Watchtowers of bone, there you train me a crier,
bell-ringer, scalding oil-dumper, warhorn blower,
archer with flaming arrows of lard,
monk to project fifteen avatars in the clouds,
shapeshifter to sneak through puddles
on the tar, a ghost in the rainbow grease:
I am the bottom of the ocean of gasoline.

Glowing creatures swim in my mind,
they meld through the blood-brain barrier
into your blue-green, black-white world
where you listen to the machine symphony,
where you record it on phonograph discs
made of carbon & calcium & silicon.

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Pen'd by
@d-pend
3/29/18

.
Images created
by digital manipulation
of free domain photographs.

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