Monday, June 30, 2008

Armageddon Dream #3

I hear the jingle of bells closing in.
Looking up, there he is,
A frumpy little Mexican
Steering a paletas bike.
Only instead of sweet and sticky ice cream
He’s selling 45’s, a penny a piece.

I signal for him to slow,
Reach into my pocket
And scoop about fifty cents in change.

The air is getting thicker.
The sun is creeping closer
And I want to listen to these records
Before it’s too late.

He points to the top of a ziggurat
Explaining I might find a turntable there.

Knees buckling helplessly
I climb the soft, stone steps
Trying not to press too hard
In a vain effort to preserve the ancient form.

After what seems like hours
I make it to the top.
Pull the records from my backpack,
And just like he said,
There on a little log sits a record player.

I sort through the singles until I find some Madness,
Set the needle down,
And the music booms out of the clouds.
The sky fizzles and melts.
The pores of the stone start to pulsate
As if trying to snatch one final breath.
The last thing I remember is a dazzling flash of light
And the record skipping.
And the record skipping.
And the record skipping.

1 comment:

.när'sĭ-sĭz'əm. said...

so your poetry.
its fucking great.

thanks for it.