Roads of Angel Dust
In vintage America roads were tiny,
narrow as a toad’s leg
long and winding like Kerouac’s
narrative, black snakes of despair
insignificant. Cassady was dead on
whatever he said about it. A capella
voices squeak from whiny speakers
horseless buggies filled
with magical loss.
Tires harmonize with rain
drops, vaporize, fires cauterize in four barrels
quartet of hobos under the hood
they are seditious, up to no good
it’s about the engine’s whine
if you don’t have cheese
in your pocket you will not dine
just die like flies on golden
windshield frame. So many specks
on maps, balancing checks, checking
oil, topping off fluids in joints
where they beat you
or leave you dead; nothing in between
the beatings became songs,
a poetic movement;
the rest buried in metal tubes
silent slides on highway sides of prayer
and peeling rain.
Steve Sibra has lived in Washington and Montana his entire life, a student of the soil and the trees. His words have appeared in numerous literary periodicals including Matador Review, Fox Cry, Shattered Wig and Jellyfish Review. He has a gigantic collection of vintage comic books.
David J. Thompson is a former prep school teacher and coach who lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He likes The Simpsons, Spain, postcards, and minor league baseball. His poetry/photography book Grace Takes Me is available from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press.
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