It Ends Up Running Down the Middle Most of the Time

She wrote boxes of letters
she can’t address. There is
a litany of childhood poisons
all bottled up, so Chica trudges
on in the stink of the garage
rubbing the grease from a drive shaft
on her face. She can do lots of things,
but love is something she can’t
diagnose. The line of people
telling her what she is doing wrong
is getting so long. She denies it. Her
keeper is a man who shows no
affection. Showing much distaste for her,
so she feels the ugliness of her
being, yet she can sell anything to any
man because they want to molest her
slight, strong frame. Garage work suits her
being the only bun at that sausage party
makes her less woman and more thing.
In the jukebox of her memory, she dances
out of time. The song plays silent witness to
the passing of time—winning some, losing
some. Never can she manage to say anything
right, so she takes up her pen and brings it all
down crashing like oil and water separating
themselves. She has a sadness that grows all
around her like the ravages of salt
on metal. It’s all corroded. This drive
shaft is mine, she says. The faster she goes
the more obvious it’s bent like a fucking
jump rope just like the gawd-damned song
skipping in the jukebox
incessantly playing in her head.

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2 Comments

  1. There are some interesting transitions in these writings from earlier pieces…a reflection of all the changes in your life…all captured in these poems…hope your are well.


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