Maroon Chrysler crutched up on a concrete block.
A front spindle twisted back hard,
caliper hung by a stretched neoprene brake hose.
Grooved rotor cracked and rusted.
Beaten burned toaster sprawled in the weeds.
Its' cord melted to copper wire frayed and brittle.
Near bent-nail steps below the split door jamb,
gouged by screwdriver scars.
Face down on the brown stained mattress of fear,
headlong into the dark centrifugal interior.
Against walls of layered wounds unremembered,
like pruned limbs left out in the winter wind,
shrinking like urchins above the tide.
The shrieks aren't voices or words,
mean blows are dull and ache without names.
The past is fucking the future,
on the cold black steel plateau of night,
moving too slowly toward a rising gorge of dawn.
The sun lifts an axe-blade headache,
turning another unwanted page.
Fighting repeats with the unopened eye,
bringing out the mute heart to bleed.
Gray bacon squirms in the black iron pan.
Ham hands around the stale brown Schlitz quart.
Peering into the curled formica table top,
waiting for the freaks to shudder away.
On the ashes of daylight,
beside the dried river demons,
What the fuck?