Carousel of Fallen Angels

II. Buick Ghost
“could it really be this hard
to emerge from an oyster shell
to crack the carapace
when every step wants to suck you back
when the rain is a
wall of needles?”
from the Psalm of Stolen Anatomies

he traversed a sea of grass and mud
suffocating in openness
torrents from the sky a curtain not easily parted
nothing but green and brown and cement air
the barn long disappeared sinking back gone out of sight
the bed far out of reach
but mud pulling every footstep
easier to return perhaps
would the mire part for him
if he went back?

flapped his long sleeves
wet wings useless

he found an island
the hulk of an old Buick
shipwrecked in the sludge
almost growing roots

he sat on the hood and took out his box cutter
his sleeves annoyed him
slashed at the mulish wet threads
finally hacked away
threw them in the mud pair of hollow white worms
crumpled and sleeping without animating arms
felt a bit like them do dreams keep them from rising?

look at his arms thin as whispers
see the cuts red razor splits
slashed from mercilessly cutting the sleeves
the harsh rain cleans away the blood

he moves inside the Buick shell
“Why didn’t I ever sleep in the barn?” he thought
“Musty hay a drier cradle
it was the dreams
the dreams
pinned me to the bed
like a beetle in a collection.
kept me in the rain.
the rain was infected by dreams.
must get dry.”

(he was fooling himself
he was deathly afraid
of something in the green barn)

rusted holes in the roof
where the rain still gets in
tattered duct-taped upholstery
a spider-web pattern of cracks
in the windshield
holes and wires where
the speedometer and gages
and the radio used to be
floor mats under his feet
soaked a graveyard of insect carcasses

rearview mirror gone too
so he could not see the ghost in the back seat
but knew he was there
and thought it best to ignore him
even when the ghost leaned over
and whispered in his ear,
“Can I ask you a question?”
ignore him just stare ahead
“Have you accepted Jesus Christ
as your personal savior?”
don’t turn around don’t make eye contact
the ghost fell silent once more
maybe just stay here
get used to this roommate
jesusfreak ghoul
he stays in back I stay up front

curious what’s in the glove compartment
just a flashlight (batteries still good)
and a video tape
labeled with masking tape
one word written in black marker
SPARKY

the song crackles in the air again
could be coming from the
car radio if there still was one
the loose wire ends pick it up
let it sing and travel and crackle
but they are just transmitters
the song emanates elsewhere

time to move on

Carousel of Fallen Angels (c) 2009 by Eric Asaris