Actually stuck in the tar pits for once,
The floor of a mobile home,
littered with yellowing magazines,
& dinosaur bones
and textbooks regarding mythology
Complete with the most beautiful pictures of medusa,
And still no one was turned to stone,
and instruction manuals to children’s toys,
Lost in the mud long ago,
Left alone to be consumed by the snakes,
All this literature, still
Higher definition then the paisley couch on which everyone sits ,
that is slowly coming undone.
Slowly turning to stone,
so many almanacs.
But the picture is still missing,
All of this,
The bones and the literature and the magazines
all bound for a dumpster fire,
Instead of a funeral pyre,
Narrowly avoiding the luxury of being burned and subsequently
under the cover of moonlight.
By an amateur archeologist,
Dusted off in some hotel,
In a room with no numbers on the door-
By a man with quarters on his eyes,
By that same amateur archeologist,
Who is now
A gambler at the booking window-
A glass window,
Which means their is transparency here.
There are ghosts here.
Putting up whatever he can muster,
Coins, and chips and shell casings and tubes of lipstick,
Pushing the entire avalanche towards
The man in the plastic visor,
Picking his horse,
Picking this horse,
securing nothing, but an eventual stampede.
A hood over his face as he walks toward the revolution,
Sand whipping up all around him like some desert wind has blown in,
The sound of
Galloping horses and busy answering machines fill the air
and his nose
and his eyes and his mouth,
instead of the gritty sand.
Much better than the gritty sand,
Accompanied by the light from a procession of torches,
Leaping over craters,
In slow motion.
The tar pits clamped down like a hungry shark,
Taking with it his shoes and his socks,
But not his resolve or his jeans,
Damnit, not the jeans.
He can still skip into the streetlight
carried by the calls of angels,
but they cant hold on,
He slips through the talons of the eagles that have replaced the angels,
his neck is too heavy with pearls.
his heart is too heavy, also
thinking of that lost picture,
The picture that he drew himself,
He is no artist,
but it was him-
it was meant to be him-
A man getting a haircut,
Laid back in that big robotic chair,
Dizzy from the spinning,
Head tilted back in a sink,
The thought of drowning occurring to him now more than ever,
Staring up at hissing cats,
Feeling like an android now more than ever,
clippings of his hair falling into the basin below, and circling the drain,
But he cant see it.
He can see it.
He doesn’t want to see it,
That picture he drew.
he didn’t know why he drew that particular scene,
A man getting a haircut,
Why he thought
A picture of a man getting a haircut would absolve anything at all.
Lost among pictures of medusa,
and so many almanacs,
so many almanacs