liked the guitar and with a thirst
We got lost one night outside of Crossville, three girls in an old convertible
no spare tire, when the radio hit static, engine light winked on.
out on this tar blacktop road, not hardly two lanes anywhere
and not a sign of anything in sight, just our headlights on the road.
We wound up at this roadhouse, white cinder blocks and black paint trim,
the smell inside was old stale beer and french fry grease from last July.
We meant to get directions and get out of there
but there was this kid not fourteen up on a stage
about six inches high, a barstool and a drum machine
and a silvertone guitar, flannel plaid and jeans with cuffs,
and singing Jimmie Rodgers like a pro. Now Sarah is a fool
for Jimmie Rodgers. Kim and me, we liked the guitar kid, and with a thirst
for beer decided we might just as well sit down and stay a while
and listen to the kid. Sarah got directions while Kim and I bought beer
and I went back to get some of those fries,
and just about a dozen bikers strolled in looking mean and we got nervous. I mean nervous.
But what we have here
is a little something
about the nature of
perception.
When what you see
is what you expect to see,
nothing more makes sense.
You need to see what’s there.
We saw trouble wearing dirty red bandanas denim vests and studded leather.
Owner just saw some money coming in on Tuesday night, and that kid
playing Jimmie Rogers saw his dad
and grinned
that’s all
mini-challenge, make a poem out of five. I don’t know that this works well, or even at all, and would really appreciate feedback.
For today’s prompt, I want you to write a poem with (or about) someone (or something) covered. A person could be covered with a blanket or blanketed with darkness. Something could be covered by water or earth or anything you can think, I guess. Or you could write a poem about how you “have it covered,” I suppose.
Mini-challenge DIY Kit Poem #4
.
Moonshine Tunes
covered all in creekslime
and smelling like the guts of worms, dead fish, and honeysuckle
later we would find ourselves the hosts
to countless tiny ticks
too small to find until they’d gorged themselves
and swollen large as mustard seeds.
stay aways, not run aways
we were wild and fearless
singing moonshine tunes like nursery rhymes
and camels and fatimas out of world war one
we trailed anachronisms
in the wind behind our bikes
like disney girls without a problem
out of reach of common sense.
in another summer I would know
why you played with such ferocity
.
Myths grow feet
Myths saunter through our lives
as effortlessly as Hercules
could rip your check in half and say
your money’s no good here or Pecos Bill
could spin a three day novel
out of tumbleweeds and moonshine
They walk among us in disguise Medusa’s
masked and pixellated but she’s there
and stoning the unwary from a screen
Dragons dress innocuous and sell insurance
beside oracles in Farmers overalls
and naked cupids wag their butts in
the colored shadows where boy bands
wear chastity like bucks wear horns
Doe eyed divas sacrifice themselves
to blood-lust soulmates with a joy
akin to Minos busty bull maids
And beneath my fingers daily
little myths grow and walk off
were the ancients as bemused
to watch their creations disappear
or did they see them strolling
out the door to make their lives
and progeny that I see daily
in the grocery store and all while
wonder at the whereabouts of my
small creat-ures, baby aphrodites
and bastets, and if they’ll dare
to show their faces and come
tail-dragging home.
