Maybe he was one of those
deluded youths who grew up
thinking Grand Theft Auto,
the game, was like life,
running red lights on major
cross town road, going for
100 mph with two squad
cars in pursuit, more on the way.
Enjoyed half a mile or so of freedom,
no end game in mind, one car
in an intersection away from
they-never-knew-what-hit-them
conflict resolution, a toe tag toga
party for all those impacted
by the chase.
“my mother, your mother, anybody’s mother”
Stoked on crazy juice she got
from jukebox jokers in exchange
for back alley favors. Stuff she drank
from flasks, mixtures decanted from
whatever they had on hand , tainted
by essence of sterno, distilled from
loco weeds, cactus pods, “prickers
still attached” she said, with a toothless
grin. Stuff that put hair on your lips,
that made your scalp tingle like bees
mad to escape a burning hive.
Maybe that was where the smoke
inside her came from, clouding her
walleyes, swollen with edema and
venereal disease. Smoke that spread
through the hollow brain cavities,
traveling through her rotted skull until
blood leaked out of the corners of her eyes
and a terrible humming sound issued
from her ears like swarms of something
previously unknown to man.
Everything indistinct, out of focus
except a thin man in a black cloak
swinging a scythe, smiling as he worked
his way through the weeds to where she
was standing, hungering for his touch.
Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine misfitmagazine.net.
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