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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 12/2011
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KEVIN RIDGEWAY Baseball Bats and Cigarettes The two-car dungeon is dark and the poltergeist beams of television transport weary grain images of gangland men in twenty first century Iowa corn fields with aluminum bats bashing in the skulls of wayward wise guys brain matter dancing everywhere mean debris childish tears drain from the nearly wet brain of this bourbon soaked spectator Turn the television off and be gone with these brutes and alone with brutish exhalations the room is pitch black save for one large swath of sun across the south wall hosting shadow men swinging bats wavy minds shattering behind the smoke of many cigarettes the blood spattering all over as shock and awe hemorrhage from all vile organs Vacation in a Western City on the poisoned end of the city where the spiritual tumors slowly melt beneath the sun shopping cart homes being pushed along the boulevard the sidewalks with its petals of glass shards the view from the hotel window is a junkyard with wild dogs sinking bottled ships in the bathtub surrounded by Styrofoam takeout containers hosting a flurry of red ants temples throbbing as housekeeping bumps the vibrating walls with roaring vacuums churning this buttered hangover Staggering from the Vacationland liquor store passed the hypodermic needles floating in stagnant waters sipped at by plagues of night flies and drift back into the pine fresh maze of empty hotel halls Will all cities look like this post apocalypse or is it just nestled within an imagination turning with violent sparks of paranoia in desperate need of a vacation of its own Truck Drivers and Drop Outs Pump a fist and hear those mighty whistles blow these back roads where we all caravan on that hedonistic road to air-worn glory In this shit box dodge sandwiched between two rigs blasting mix tapes of mom and dad’s greatest hits headed no where toward the lonesome desert terrain that used to baffle us from those bleeding gut Peckinpah westerns The gnarled demonic spirits are soaring we’re not alone with our pills and our water bottle wine please truckers don’t fall asleep at the wheel and turn us to mulch We have things to do back home when our minds clear Kevin Ridgeway is a writer currently based in Southern California. Recent work has appeared in Gloom Cupboard, Side B Magazine, Red Fez, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Haggard & Halloo and The Legendary. |
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© 2004-2011 Underground Voices |
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