Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Ode to a Buick Skylark

Another drizzling gray summer morning
I wake up to cold pizza and a cup of coffee
“the breakfast of champions”
         & so the daughters of Memory
                  riding in on the pale light
                           perform a little bump & grind
sworn to green scenes right out of the tide book
         w/bubbles & like glistening
                  catalogs of subtropical flowers
                           printed on silk sleeves of fog
         If I wasn’t there you’d have to
         dream up someone else to talk to someone
         else who wouldn’t listen because the song the
         wind sings in the eucalyptus is cranked up to
         10 on the voodoo dial & if you had wings
         you’d probably make a similar sound
Sometimes my heart races like a vintage Corvette
w/a blown head-gasket
         other times it’s more like a
                  rabid chihuahua
                           chained to a palm tree
                                    in the rain