Poetry, Vol. 2.3, Sept. 2008
When your lust is done with me I’m gonna need a hearse. This fanbelt snapping is just another excuse. I’m not a tool. I’m tired and dry. I want to lie down in river water. Your fingers lock the steering wheel, cut off at the knuckles. Super Bowl Sunday the motel sign blinks. Dead green neon like scum trapped in pool bottom under the bourbon of stale rain. There’s where we go pay, I point to a bullet-proof booth like a fast food drive-through. A woman in an orange nightgown sits on a stool, her black face white with night cream. You tap the cracked glass, Ricochet must have done that. A drawer slides out. Eats our money. Then comes a key looped through a wire hanger. I can feel myself disappearing long before you lift me through the door pink as misery, a black number 9 swinging. All the landscape inside me bubbles like shook-up Pepsi. Beaumont refineries, the long tense necks of the naphtha chimneys, the strangling thick Mississippi.