a greasy summer morning

Getting off when it was too late
Was the easiest part
An emergency exit never before opened
The boiling cauldron of misery

Hear an echoeing siren
Incendiary vowels coming
Out through your nostrils
Golden weasels, electric blue heat

Contact paper for wet endings
The beards in glue and please:
Fleet must return home
I must return home

The pavement was lava
The sweating needles through my temples
The dripping distilled alcohol
The rain grease drops over my head

There is no glory after a roudy night
A path stolen from the golden arches
Tell me what is true in you -- for reals
Tell me what is and maybe we can work something out


bernard wilson (Chicago, IL, 1976)