Visions in Blackstone Valley
O ivory-flanked Fleetwood w/tailfins circa 1966, leviathan surivor of slow
lanes, Floridian quests & neon motorcourts of yore, guided by plastic dashboard
madonna & Sinatra showtunes, widower accountant returning to Sage, Wyoming
O jellybean-green Kia w/Free Tibet bumpersticker & rearview mirror New Age
macrame dreamcatcher, roaming gamin in pink Lycra boobtube & bluetooth affixed
to ear, bopping to Black-Eyed Peas hip hop en route to Nashua, New Hampshire
O eggplant-hued Volvo w/windshield visors & roof-racked banana-yellow kayack
dropping back from lane-jumping fish truck, goateed professor in Oakley sunglasses
deterred by fear of ballooning airbags before Gulf Coast Hemingway adventures
O pale-skinned tan Minivan hatchback, rear seats aglow w/Disney cartoon flicks
& assorted handheld video games by passle of 3rd generation Pakistani kids,
MIT engineer Pop glued to cellphone, MD wife pecking @ laptop, seeking Euclid, Ohio
O eighteen-wheeler Mack truck, downshifting on descent w/80 MPH hot tub canvass
airbrushed on frame, Garcia y Vega cigarillo & radio bluegrass spilling
from driver’s window, still 1200 miles from San Francisco
O bug-eyed maroon Volkswagon w/Sapphic dowager couple in thrilling antique
expedition along Taconic State Parkway, planning stop @ Edna St Millay’s preserved residence, a glass of Bordeaux w/dinner, then 35th reunion at Bryn Mawr
O battered brown Impala w/sideswipe gash & Kurt Cobain doppleganger @ wheel
bogarting resinous roach, tie-dyed backseat passengers howling at swerve
into fast lane w/rubber-burning squeal, immortal stooges of youth gone too far
O sable-sheened Hummer w/silver trim, roaring from rear, iron-pumped shaved
head pilot w/stud in eyebrow & aviator goggles fixed on sealing real estate deal
in Hartford to meet pals for paintball attack & jello shots in local Lowell biker’s bar
O pint-sized strawberry-red Capri, delicate jewel of Belmont, bouffant soccer mom
veering for moral detour w/internet lover Raphael @ Whispering Pines Motel,
feels diamond facets of wedding ring & reconsiders husband, Tom
O Chariots of Adventure!
O Models of Defeat!
O Passengers of Destiny!
O Drivers of Deceit!
Bright sale pennons flutter & snap @ Charleton rest stop in winds of Democracy!
Coming to a Theater Near You
Your children are vanishing, one by one Empty swingsets creak in suburban backyards “Where’s Timmy?” his Mom shrieks to a cell phone,
touching her dragon tattoo with a chill From cornfields, city streets, or willow tendrils
where they once played, the children are gone Fathers in backward caps and pirate earrings
shout from the sterns of hot tubs near and far It’s just the chirp of crickets they’re hearing
at dusk when the children are disappearing
Aunt Kate fears the worst—alien abductions running the tip of her pierced tongue across
Goth-red lips, she calls the police “They’re lost,”
she cries, but the robot voice instructions
tell her, “Please hold.” Is it something viral?
Uncle Billy slams his remote control
on the coffee table and snaps, “Vampires!”
Still, the children are nowhere to be found Weeds strangle sandlots Wind wipes pitchermounds
to dust Come home children We’re so tired.
Looking for the Boss
Ok, doll It was an inside job,
slick as January rain on Chicago
blacktop Smoother than Ben
Webster kissing a saxophone
solo goodbye One cool move See, they didn’t just take him That would’ve been too easy They knew we wouldn’t miss
him with a goon like Ouspensky
at the wheel Doc Leary worked
him over with truth serum Then the French kingpins,
that wall-eyed rat, Jean-Paul,
a mastermind like Focault,
and Camus, the undercover
man, provided facts to explain
his disappearance Add a whiff
of patchouli, a Reike crystal
to divert attention—and bang!
It’s no surprise they pulled it off Listen, I won’t lie to you He had his shot and the muscle
to make it stick But he backed
down, laid low when the time
came to show them who was boss Yeah, it’s tough to know he let
the deal fall through It’s bad
enough that a greasy punk
like Osteen was the best
he could do, running numbers,
shaking down widows and all
those poor suckers who thought
he’d deliver sooner or later Hey, c’mon now, angel Tears
don’t wash for an investigation Don’t trip up on that yellow
police tape in those stilettos It may be a crime scene,
but we’ve got a job to do I’m calling forensics and a pal
at the archdiocese downtown “Hello, Hal?”
