Eight Vehicle Pileup in C-flat Minor, Op. 17

Written at an all-night diner in Silverdale, WA. January 2, 2003

                                                                                                                                               BMX Highway Foxtrot painted December, 2002

Gazing at the cloudless midnight canopy

as my sedan hugs the yellow line,

the grey jelly begins to spark 

and stutter 

and gyrate

and waltz to Stravinsky 

and to Lenin

and to a cello concerto

composed and conducted by Castro.

My eyes suck into the back of my head

as the pangs of oboes

and gongs of jackhammers

fill the hall.

An old hag, 

dripping in diamonds,

and fur

and resentment

rises, frowns, mutters, frothing,

stomping on the toes of the nobodies nearby.

Fidel scowls over his shoulder

as the orgasm crescendos—

blows continuously—from the stage,

blares obscenely

at whatever ear dare enter 

within its piercing radius.

Like a pestering child with a secret,

the musicians pound on red plastic sand pails,

all the same size,

the same tone,

the same dull thud into thousand-dollar microphones:

THUD

T H U D

T  H  U  D.

In perfect union.

Now the mirrored ball—

plump as Phobos, slow as saplings—

begins its long descent,

and the sound slaps off its surface as it spins,

eviscerating the ear

like a school of piranhas 

attacks bloodied Bambi:

Relentlessly.

Mechanically.

And just before blackness falls, 

I notice that my sedan isn’t being too friendly with that yellow line.