| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** M. Blake: M. writes in Rhode Island and has published a few stories online. Stick Your Neck Out; 3711 Atlantic; Skive; Fiction On the Web; 63 Channels; Silentfusion; Laura Hird; Thunder Sandwich (July); Open Wide (August). He can be reached at mblake63@cox.net |
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| © 2006 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| What Bus Line is Leaving Hell? |
| by M. Blake |
| Swollen attitude comes with the citified scenery:
All that’s kicking in dead lots pushing up weeds All that stirs in gaping ruins Where progress long ago rusted out Where the old brick is as relevant as your grandma’s memories The only thing homeboy has (other than the stolen sneakers) Is his chafed spirit, his irritated outlook, Another day neutralizing him Like something from a stun gun. He finds a doorway to lean in, His mind calculating small change details: A splash of purple wine color over the drab sidewalks His imagination scuffs, his vision slowly dies on. Attitude the last spark against total destitution, Desolation. Defiance against the threat of destruction. Death hovering over dirty dealings: So and so snuffed in such and such street A corpse lodged in a rank gutter Head crushed by assailant unknown, Sordid details taken in the sewer flow. Is there a hustle for the new day? Eyes peeled for any potential passing by, The suits focusing straight ahead on meetings, offices, Yes, the towering glass dominates his horizon, Hiding a maze of four lane madness. The only escape seems to be two for a buck Beers and then the collapse in the park. We’ll call today a lark. The same old faces in the supper line A hundred dirty men here to dine. A hand comes down hard on a Good Book, A fierce voice warns them all They’ll be roasting and toasting before long The flames will have their time with them The unrepentant, the unbelievers, the scornful May seem like they’re onto something now But wait ‘til that judgment day. Many just have a burp and a thank you on the way out A satisfied smile thinking they have enough change To wash the meal down with a short dog, A little of the old laughing shit with the boys Down at the bus stop, smiling at the serious faces In their seats, going somewhere But apparently not where they’re going Or not straight away anyway. Those serious, sober people pray Pushing those flames back another day. Finally, darkness covers his camp Down by the old highway ramp In the shadows he welcomes Now that he is invisible again. Reflection at day’s end And always the same old Wine sour conclusions Pacified by sleep. |
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| 64 |
| June 2006 |