Monday, November 11, 2013

Lost Highway / And now she goes by some other name

Michele McDannold has an extensive collection of flannel and rubber chicken heads. She is the editor/publisher of Citizens for Decent Literature, a project of The Literary Underground.

Lost Highway

this is the straight to hell version
your mother warned you about
an addiction
that you will serve
right up to the bitter end
when things have gone awry
many, many miles back

the top left open
the controls unmanned
one hour
in a roadside motel
at noon

there was a secret compartment
in the floor
off to the corner
where the carpet
was clearly cut

the place is clean
i'll give it that

the man at check-out
hands me a goofy smile
with a comment card
"everything okay?"
he asks
in his broken english

pausing too long
a moment here
could be disastrous
"yes, just fine."

i am on the lost highway
no cell reception
no rest stops
no one asking the wrong questions
and only one
thought --

And now she goes by some other name

trina was the skinniest girl i had ever seen
hip bones sticking out
pale, yellowish skin
and terrible hair
she had a kindness
a mystical way about her
that was captivating

for a while
she was wiccan
a couple times a buddhist
always with the tarot cards

she took me to my first
rocky horror show
we formed a coven
the boys brought flowers
mowed the lawn
wrote poems
sketches, long into the night
acid trips in the park
and no need for explanations

the worst and most harmful
was the multiple personality disorder
i never did believe it

it didn't really matter
after the third abortion
when she told me
"i went into the bathroom
when he was done.
took the condom out of the trash
and shoved it up there."

one could fairly say
her mind broke then
in some abortion clinic
out west
where he held her hand
watching the light fade
right out of her

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