Monday, February 28, 2011

Speeding Down Interstate 86 South by Jack Henry

alone in a house
under skies
gray and unforgiving
surrounded by an empty desert
and a dead sea

there are no voices
no sounds that rise from a schoolyard covered in dead grass
there are no eyes
no witnesses arranged in a fashionable stance to bear truth upon those of us that remain
there are no screams
no cries of ecstasy or pain or confusion from tides unbearable on shores discontent

in the solace of night
a meth kitchen explodes
into life
and burns
no crowds gather to watch
and dance

in days like these
the ones we awake to without fresh skin
our feet touch
cold stone
hands reach out for a glass pipe and torch

and little else

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