::07:24:08::

::: Number 69 :::

My motorcycle boots
Are crusted with
Suburban mud and the coffee
Smells good after
I grind the gold coast
Of my life and boots against
The last days of March
Dusting off the stuff
Of stars from Carranca
Who traveled to me by ways
Of an unexpected brown moon
To gard against
And protect from the evil biddy
Eyes doing the staring bidding
Of neighbors that wonder
Back and forth in the yard porches
A haunting in paintings of
A dead dish drain artist
Wide mouth crazy eye dogged
Keeping an Easter Island
Sentinel over the artificial
Fish tank and the GE toaster
Peppered with dead piss-ants
In the crumb basin
Through the Victorian window
Not cleaned for over two years now
Dimly yawning at the neighbor’s house
Where she is always
Rotating the order
Of her two cars without seeming
To ever leave
Like an automatic
Motion sensor light trapped in
Its own dream
On
And
Off
And it just TWO F*CKING CARS
For Christ’s sake!
Protect me Carranca
Protect me and I
Will always wash your hair
And give you a new view
Every new sun

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

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