flickering tongue and your rattling scales
Another one from the table
a track from The Church floating
out from the speakers in the living room
-f.m. radio for a change of pace-
fucking beautiful song
last time I heard this track was almost
the first time
driving through the farmland
on I5 headed toward
Fresno or someplace shit-awful
a year into the new century
little black Nissan pickup
my dog next to me
the sunset smeared across the
fields’ horizon outside the window
a laborer dream
but real as day
while I wrapped my head around
the next job site
the mornings waking up in the
back under the canopy
all my things pushed to the sides
around the wheel wells
my dog sleeping behind my knees
the redneck foreman pissing
in the cold dirt
a foot away from my
truck
the half-ass drive to the
gas station for coffee
water
soda
cigarettes
beef jerky
Excedrin
whatever the crew needed
to get the metal barns
built
the canvas roofs pulled
and tied
the stakes anchored into the
ground to pull the cables taught
street or dirt
didn’t matter
pound that shit down
get the site ready for
the fat and rich
weirdos with their
horses and spoiled brats
custom horse trailers
RVs that cost more
than most homes
rarely did we have to see them
but when we did it
was during tear-down
when we’d circle back through
from a different part
of I5, whether it was Burbank
or Monroe, Washington
or whether it was from
Highway 97
from Burns, Oregon
up
to Spokane
didn’t matter
the shit had to come down
and we had to make it happen
on time
any hangover
any breakdown
any type of human
condition outside of the job
was binary
including pain
or fatigue from the weight of
all the things we carried for
16 hours a day
But The Church’s
Reptile played
through the sunset
through the time knowing
that I knew where I was
where I wanted to be
a ghost off the grid
cheap pay
sleep outside
but there was a chain gang
rush to it
I couldn’t deny
or define
sore skin
the blood from
blisters or exploded
roof jacks
or from flat out
dropping to your knees
carrying a door across
a stretch of dirt and horse shit
I looked at the CD cover on the
bench-seat next to my dog
some free-shit-compilation CD
pushed on me at
the last coffee house
no radio signal
burned out on my music
so I surfed the CD and caught the
beginning of the song
and let it play out
and it was good there
in the truck
in the dream of fatigue
in the stretch of miles beating south
cast aside the sunset
the fields
watching
the torn sky
bleeding
mauve
down the
fading yellow
fields
black at their tips
the song playing
driving through
it with a film
covering me
that wouldn’t burn off
without something
outside of the job
something human
binary
something I couldn’t
figure out
but
the job was done
and I left that lifestyle
after a year or so
and now it’s
almost 2016
and I sit here
at the table
in my bungalow
waiting for the maid service
to show up
slamming coffee
downloaded the song to
my phone
add to playlist
I kill the radio
and hit play
on the little screen
and watch the room
sitting fair in
what I’ve asked for
waiting to see the cover
for the new book
set to drop in the spring
waiting to hear back from
people I used to read about
regarding collaboration
on scripts
all of that
but still waiting
for something
to burn off the film
to pull whatever it is
up or down from where
it rests
from where it hides out
and fucks with me.