detour

steeples and pyramids sit

on a three-mile brown horizon

pancake flat as a lake of shit.

a fat snake snuck a peak

from the dead oats overgrowing

the polished black heart of a tombstone

where I saw my reflection

looking back from the other side.

i heard the shriek of unseen kids.

they like to play on the tracks

flattening pennies and pretending

to be wallenda on a rope over

roaring niagara, so I crawled back

to my cardboard refrigerator box

hidden under the wild fig tree

claiming the ditch. because

we spent our days rehearsing apocalypse

and our nights chasing the mundane

in a cloud of smoke and spinning vinyl.

the needle tracking the grooves or our arms

waiting for it all to be over to go home

to peoria elms or los angeles boulevards,

galveston sands. a detour. intermission.

limbo. a reception room couch

without a book or a pen,

while our souls bled away.