Salina Blues

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A virgin socialite sets out on the interstate...

A virgin socialite sets out on the interstate.
His foot is heavier than his heart,
but no one is watching except a satellite near the stars.
Loneliness seeps like a poison drug through the cracks in his life.
He stabs through with disregard, breaks his mother's back.
She's right there but she's so far away, and so is she.
Bank tellers, phone and toll operators don't care.
December siren songs rend the air.
Never been down this road before.
Give 'em a brake when you head straight down the main vein.
Used in these states of emergency, slicing the Midwest
while the Middle East bleeds.
Someone could land a jet on this evening-smeared hood,
scratch and tear and vaporize the paint.
Just give him a lift, let him fly, tell him exactly why.
Then clutch him to your heart and cry and scream and explain
something unrelated that has been causing you pain.
We're neither one of us bad people.
We'll work together like flashlight batteries,
positives to negatives, shining light on the dead highway,
groping our way back home following halos the color of piss.
We're both facing the wrong direction.
Speeding away from each other at a combined speed of
entirely altogether too slow.
He's got a complaint, a solitary complaint, against no one in particular,
maybe himself, maybe the world.
It was such a small world after all just an eye-twitch ago.
Never been down this road before, straight down the main vein
to the heart of the matter.
You're not here with me! You're not here with me! You're not here with me!
I'm not but I am but I will be but you can't ever know and if you ask
I will burn you to the blackened core with the fire in my eye
And your back will ache and you will awake each morning with a sunburn
if I really am brighter than the sun that sets just past us both,
just out of our reach there in the New Year's sky.
But it will feel so good to be so warm in the dead of December,
watching the snow fry in the drains from a cozy bed.
Why would you want to be in the middle of that anyway?
You're sick in the head, boy, sick in the heart.
Just put it all aside and take two of these and call me in the morning.
You might not sleep easy, but we had no warning.

- Luke Rounda


Submitted: August 29, 2008

© Copyright 2022 LukeRounda. All rights reserved.

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