A prose poem
You think you’re alive for a minute. Perhaps even for a day and a week, but not years, sometimes centuries. Hold a wrench a particular way in your grip and you become certain about things being eternal or halfway like that. Grasp it the other way around, and you fall through many ceilings, until a pothole holds your hand, and you feel really, really skinny.
Sometime cars are your friends, while 18-wheelers keep you sandwiched in rainstorms. You play with the stick-shift, your navel, and certain waves. But the radio’s not always with you, though the road is, and lots of banshees. Persons screaming sideways, that you’re ripping the wrong wings.
Oil on the forehead, with pastor’s fingers on your eardrums, hum at the windshield, as you confess your many sins. Someone barks a thumb up, saying pitch me on the pavement. Take me to your palaces. They don’t know how poor you are.
But change, it swipes the linings, of that pockets, where your cards go. Impressing moving people, and seagulls made of tin. Marketing on black gravel where the rust of kingdoms draining, whistle-grinds the moonlight, as the guardians watch you sail.
You think that you’re imperfect, but really you’re a scoundrel, a demon with a person around it, a soul which leaks the hands. Like water from many rainstorms, you will wish and wash your whistle. You will cry with proper teardrops, till the wings they flap no more.
Then the road it goes so quiet, though the new cars scream their names. You will wonder, while you wander, on random cities you said you’d moor.
And then the payment surely happens, as you bounce the roof and seatbelts. A spread of lengthy railroad crates your shape, extends its arms. As you shout the name of Jesus, of his mother, and all her children. You hope your angel’s lugholes don’t grip its fingers, and close it’s eyes.