Stopping for gas. - by Craig Turnwall

So when you’ve lit a pilot light and you can’t keep it all together
It makes most sense to scream, violently, into a dry wall or seasoned winter
night
Beat your hand on a yellow brick and chip away at the shavings of corner stone,
A weapon, aren’t we weapons?
If I call you, you’ll call me…that is a weapon with groceries and tired, hazel
eyes
Why not a benefactor with two columns of grace and a sentence to cure hate
Tires sixty dollars a-piece and a sure discounted price on installation minus
labor
A dick-a-de-dack with words and sentiments, along with arms, a pair of hips
and nails
Over-lap with high-lites and cranberry heartaches would seize the day, I’d be
Carpe
Rich tackle, worms, canned corn, a parachute with no pull and a leg kick on
Midwest Broadway iron-on lettering bible, a horseshoe hung backwards over
Tombstones with text scribed beautifully, I see the names clearly in my dreams,
Though to read means to die, an easy equation, a simple juxtaposition, how
fireflies fight
Wrestle and the souls of men without an erection about their shadows,
hauntings, denial
GHOSTS
A letter addressed in unfamiliar hand writing to yourself, an uncle you’ve
never met,
Car that won’t start, battery dead, starter dead, juice dead, gas full, iron
rich vitamins,
Pop them a day when in a time, grab the alarm clock and shake it like a fuse,
6:43am,
Tuesday, sunk another ship, telephone left on charge at full bars next to the
pillow indent
Ringless with green envy, no news of a batted eyelash, lost change, dried
socks, too much coffee in the filter, cold tap water hand wash, trash bag
burst, Haley’s Comet fifty years out of swing by, three eggs in a short
carton, frozen vegetables, your gloves on hands with a plan to make it work,
Lotion heals, makes the skin new again, wet hands in mixture and feel them
punch calm
Buttons upright, twaddle within new furnace quietly, piss on all stairs, urine
falls down,
I can’t sing and go to the bathroom, play with fire Jolly Rancher candy, touch
porcelain
Toward the drain, bottom of the sink and think; “If only this pulled me in,
I’d follow, ‘cause piping has elbows and I’ve lost mine somewhere within this
phone call lights…mild mannered Texaco cashier, booth book ripped straight of
it's chain cord.”

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