Between Darkness and Pittsburgh
by Joseph Armstead
The voice on the radio
debates the worst
of the day's news
with a ranting idiot
while I drive through
an icy evening's rainstorm
and I can still taste
this morning's coffee
on my dry
inarticulate tongue.
The interstate stretches
onward ahead of me
in lengthening shadow,
like a rubber band
pulled too far, too tight,
all wound up and,
like a serpent,
ready to strike.
Her face is in
the back of my mind,
haunting me from
an unfinished dream,
and the sound of the
windshield wiper blades
across the cracked glass
in front of me
is like a metronome,
counting beats to music
from a forgotten melody.
The interstate looks like a
snapshot, like a faded
black and white photo
with creased wrinkled edges
from some poor slob's
photo album
of bargain basement
memories.
The rain pelts
the car's roof
like the tiny fists
of angry angels
locked out of
a trailer-park heaven.
The voice on the radio
lashes out at lonely people
and I reach over
and change the station
to a mournful pop song
about leaving your lover.
When I switch the radio off,
I notice the interstate is
empty except for me
in my old beat up car,
dim headlights trying vainly
to carve a path through
the gathering darkness.
I don't know what to do,
so I turn the radio back on
and some group of angry
pop star millionaires
are singing about
"running an endless mile".
I wish them luck
and drive on
'till the morning comes.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Nightrider" by Joopsnijder (Joop Snijder), dreamstime_1961736.jpg
******************************************************************************************************************************************
A Rhinocerous Scarab on A Grandfather Clock
By Joseph Armstead
The afternoon
drags onwards,
slouching towards
a quicksand eternity,
and I scale
a mountain
made of ennui,
daydreaming
at my desk,
looking
out my window.
Something hard and wild in me scuttles...
I'm losing my footing.
There is an
incessant hum
inside my head
that reflects the lightning
passing through my eyes
and out into the depths
of the winter sunset
on the
pollution-stained
horizon.
Something hard and wild in me scurries...
I'm losing my footing.
A flock of pelicans,
jurassic phalanx
flying along lines
of magnetic resonance,
pass along the glassy
surface of the estuary
as waves from passing
tug boats die stillborn.
Their heading
is towards the last
of the wild places.
I envy them.
Something hard and wild in me scrambles...
I'm losing my footing.
Hardshelled,
I can no longer
cling
to the face of the clock
and I slip away from Time,
falling,
to land upside down,
upended tortoise,
legs waving in space,
and angrily I right myself.
Something hard and wild in me screeches...
I walk in armored triumph.
The afternoon fades,
dying
as it bleeds
gradually
into a gloom that paints
the the waters
of the estuary charcoal,
the color of
melancholy.
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Beetle Rhinocerous" by Kefiiir (Oleg Blazhyievskyi), dreamstime_12870285.jpg
******************************************************************************************************************************************
Rainbow from a Broken Violin (Obsession)
by Joseph Armstead
It feels like a thorn
in heaven's heavy crown,
but it sounds like
the ghost
of a heartbeat.
Come when I call you,
rush blindly to my side,
flock to this cold statue,
alabaster and concrete,
brick and glass,
dispassionate warmth,
A contradiction to Revelation.
No hope for escape
from the shadow
under the rainbow bridge.
A portent of passing History,
at last your time has come.
... a song of frost and fire,
a fear of freezing,
Is it imaginary,
or is it chemical infusion,
stiffened nipples under silk,
arousal and allure,
It's all the music of mystery ...
But you can feel it just the same.
So naked and vulnerable,
Hard Truth cannot hope disguise
the fading of the colors
in the rainbow's arch,
dissolving
under the rain
of the music from your sorrow.
Lurking in memory's regret,
at last your time has come.
It feels like a thorn
and you hunger
to feel it
under your skin.
... it never feels like enough ...
Image courtesy of Dreamstime Photographic Stock: "Violin" by Ahmetor (Ahmet Orhan), dreamstime_14932882.jpg
******************************************************************************************************************************************
Comments