Caper's Poets

Still, Jude (Independence Day) — Chris Nold

None of my co-workers understand when I say that these Natrona
alleys; Chestnut, Linden, Walnut, Garfield, these must be
the backstreets of Eliot’s Unreal City. Jude tells of childhood arson
tales, staged suicides & runaway florida fugitives: prophecy, Chinese
economic war. & we are drones in the midst of
cyclical hell. This punchclock town,
my father has signed away more than half of
his life to the foundry & the killing floor;
bitter man-child hybrid, speechless supper &
I exile myself. I navigate
the Heights in a suit of dusk.
Stranded in the neon of bar lights
I’m frozen between traffic
I gaze as some local wizard launches fireworks from the
cemetery. Slender explosions cascading
earthbound, like red ferns aflame. A reminder
that this is August, long past Independence day,
as I stand before you naked & lithe, a prisoner still.

Still i smell like calamine & gasoline.
Still i pass tragic & melodramatic landmarks still pledged
sweet 16 forever, empty garage lofts & abandoned attic
bedrooms, still decaying myths.
Still i scribble puzzling references & still I dribble
indecipherable metaphors
rejected by faux Beat co-eds in pretentious polos.
Still i dream of whiskey in boxcars with Sal & and an
expanding American palette.

The next day Jude points out the house of
the Blowjob Queen of Natrona, 20 bucks to cum.
I laugh, asking myself if, perhaps,
she accepts Visa.


Filed under: Chris Nold, Issue 3,

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