PoetryRepairShop 04.03:026

PoetryRepairShop 04.03:026

My home town is Laurens, South Carolina, home of the one and only Red Neck Shop/KuKlux Klan museum - D.B. COX

D. B. COX

The American Traveling Circus

(editor's title; see last revision of this poem below...)


The bus drifts
up an off-ramp
somewhere on I-85.
We’re moving
toward the second
show of the day. Two, is
nothing new. It’s 1968,
& business is good.
Behind me, the trumpet
man blows gently
into the mouthpiece
of his horn. Warming up.
But there’s really
no need, he only
does one solo per set
& it’s always the same.
He’s got it down cold,
all heart & soul. TAPS?
Miles himself couldn’t
play it any sadder.
We feature – “one of the few”,
dress-blue choreography:
Fire the rifles.
(… don’t think)
Blow the horn.
(… don’t feel)
Fold the flag.
(… don’t consider)
Pass it over
to a drug-stunned mother,
hand-salute, (… don’t mean nothing)
& climb back on the iron-gray bus.
Yeah, we got it made,
out here on the highway --
Moving faster now,
as if we’re being
pulled along by some
unseen force.
All of us --
bound for that
vanishing point
somewhere in the
heat-shadowed distance.

American Traveling Circus copyright D. B. COX
link to PoetryRepairShop

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PoetryRepairShop 04.03:026

C. J. MARECIC
Chrysanthemums

I am always chasing some damn thing or other. Sometimes it feels so close so damn close I can feel its lips its whisper its infatuation its evocation upon my fingertip comprehension though a wistful thought an indolent dream an unfettered heart a pretty tail a petty indiscretion my own fucking reflection in a moonless sky begs to interrupt the transmutation of this sympathetic tactile apotheosis still these hands restless searching curious hungry genuine these futile hands thrive rest upon the eloquent the elusive grasp of another fugitive distraction; it might as well be chrysanthemums I wish it were chrysanthemums I'd rather it were chrysanthemums I would follow chrysanthemums gleefully obediently into the austerity of winter if they'd warm these chilled hands, if they'd reclaim these empty hands with one more feral distraction one more fanciful dream one more journey homeward, or, failing that, with, at least, a liquid promise immured today within the alchemy of those spontaneous efflorescent suns.
Koprivnica, Croatia November 2003

Chrysanthemums copyright C. J. MARECIC

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PoetryRepairShop 04.03:026

D.B. C0X

D. B. COX
Road Like A River
The bus drifts up an off-ramp, somewhere on I-95. We’re moving toward the second show of the day. Two is nothing new. It’s 1968, & business is good. Behind me, the trumpet man blows quietly into his horn. Warming up. His solo’s down cold; all heart & soul. Miles couldn’t play “TAPS” any sadder. All group moves, are choreographed in "one of the few", "dress blue" precision... [Fire the rifles] (… don’t look back) [Blow the horn] (… don’t consider) [Fold the flag] (… don’t believe) [Pass it over] (… don’t feel a thing) [Hand-Salute] (… Semper Fi-nada) climb back on the long, gray bus, & gone… Yeah, we’ve got it made out here on the highway. Just keep the conscious clean, & don’t fuck with the machine. Riding a road, like a river with rapid black water, pulling us on farther & faster. All of us -- bound for that vanishing point somewhere, in the heat-shadowed distance.
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