Fictional poem on small town socialization. SLAM entry. Janis Joplin reference in bold. |
When did I run? As the horse jumped the stable, nightfall-cloaked and proudly prancing in the Perseid storm. Stevie Wayne was calling bluffs and falling over painted tables, lidded pupils sweeping briskly over unmarried fingers, testing tan-line promises long since forgotten though delivered on passionate knees. Landing in sequence, he was like a rancid factory, overtly insulting, verbal tapestry unfolding on a crusty conveyor belt hoisting his desires on a fabric made filthy by his conquests of the moment, which on this specific evening had included smears of you. You blinked me aside but the drunkard didn’t notice, as he danced with you, distinctly. Brilliant hazels, blaring tympani, you walked from within, high-heeled hoof-prints pressing deeply on my sense of control. Iceberg embers, guided missiles -- I was drawn by your intensity, immersed in fire-splashing eyes and epinephrine waves. Attention-grabber, boldly blatant, you advanced by pirouette, so undivided by plurality the moon might fall to earth. I felt a rush of satisfaction as you gave your full attention but I felt a new calamity as Stevie launched a left. He grazed my face and tersely tumbled, ego bruised and booze-embittered. In that moment, it occurred to me that feeling good was good enough for me. Tossing thoughts of any prospects, I ate crow and bravely bolted, opportunist, more than lover -- also Stevie's only neighbor -- living fourteen miles from Nowhere on a rarely-ever traveled dark and dusty country road. |