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Tuesday, July 24, 2007


Take-up on the afterburn,
its life lights like a hot air
balloon, moth rose curtain
and all this pent up rebellion
comes seeping out into the
open, and Reverend River
and I hop on the Gnarley
and speed past the crater
gates, out into the desert sun.

Wicked, how you danced for
him, and you had even forgotten
your name, shushed me once and
told me not to place blame and
shame and fame all in the same
envelope. It's nothing, just a
present, she whispers, let it
get a bit more momentum and
watch him spin and spin and spin
as if his life depended on it.

"It does, doesn't it?" I ask,
unaware that he is watching
us, maneuvering toward that
open road, without the lights

Pretty soon he's gonna come
for you baby, and then what
plan will you throw in his path
to steer him clear of the mirror
in your eyes? Generous times
for a selfish little rabbit, naked
and hollow and wandering out,

the rattlesnakes are hungry and
we're close enough to know if
the heat's going to give us away
and wreck this train ride to that
opposite shore, full of longing.

River scoops me up, smiling
because she melted a ways back
all silver glisten on the desert floor
and no mountains left in our path
to slow those winds of restless
tendencies. He knows where I
left my keys but he's skilled in
lock-picking, there's no worry
he carries anymore, and those
regrets I so oft mentioned, well,

"there's no room for luggage luxuries
on this little trip, my dear, so cast off,"
and we do. And we do. So should you.

(copyright 2007 - Sheila Lynne)

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