He admitted he
was a hardy fan,
addicted,
Obsessed.
And She, so keen,
so completely
On her mark,
drove home her point,
Deeper,
inexorably so,
more than even he
could ever have imagined;
and spiked,
riven to his very core,
he was putty,
a mere plaything,
in her hands.
Since before he understood
what they were
he had followed them,
these blue lines,
Instinctively,
resolute.
And at her first tug
on the button
at the throat
of her blouse
the sheer cotton unfurling
her neckline faltering
falling free
bone button by
bone button
her breath seizes, swells
swelling her bosom
laid bare and
the lines
the lines
the faint blue courses
bubbling warm
just
beneath her skin
his pneumatics unwind
his musculature scintillates
e er so so
gently he reached and
laid a warm finger
at the side of her neck.
He plucked at
the plum the cherry
the peach of her pulse and
it rose Excited!
and through his fingertip
he heard her heart
slip and vibrate
across his friction ridges
and sloowly
deliberately
unconsciously
deliciously
he began tracing
o er the top
of the faint blue lines
by either hand,
by either fingers faintly
the pressure the touch of
an angel-eye butterfly wing,
its talcum modestly
dusting the way
until
She
under his touch
transfigures herself
unwinding
sighing,
sighs a temptress,
the Rapture of Odysseus
Circe, the Sirens,
Skylla and Charybdis piqued,
Calypso, the nymph,
Generous
Consorts
Constellations
Contortionists
writhing wondrous
rain-boned
slick
seaserpents
arresting him
as if
he Gazed
on Gorgon
his fingers cease and
he lay listening
on her
to the Talk
of Her
the Talk
Inside of Her,
words drawn
without breath
Communing
Intoning
Unmistakable
Unerring and
tied together
Their Silence Chimed
Their full Vessels Struck
are Deafening,
Roaring
and
The
Blue
Lines
quiver and
dance and
tremble
under
his quiet
Listening
fingers
He wakes
to the gibberish of
small birds rousing
in the ironworks
of the awning
above the gas pumps
as the sun readies
to shake its mangy head
he wakes
sitting at the wheel
of his car
his seat reclined
a roadmap sprawled
across his lap
like a wanton
desperate woman
it was dark when he pulled in
creeping on gravel and sand
that still relaxed from the
winter storms
he was on Empty
and grateful he made it that
far
it is a small town
a long way from anywhere
a rural town that once was more
and now reduced to an awkward
oasis
a small town where
he would stick out
like a sore thumb of a hitch
hiker
if he did not have a ride
a rural town pruned
by the relentless hum,
somewhere unseen, but close by,
of a super highway
an irritated town ticking
ticking
away
under the hands of
the clock in the cupola
erected above City Hall
When digital clocks
without hands believe
they have a Stranglehold
on Everyone’s soul,
but the birds do not buy it
an old man in greasy
bib overalls and greasy hair
wiping the sleep out of his eye
with one hand and toting in the
other
a stained white
ironstone coffee mug
with Buddy etched on one side
and
the Sinclair dinosaur stenciled
on the other
stops walking to stare at him
through
his windshield
He rolls his window down
and holds his hand out
good morning!
Buddy replies ya made it
in full possession of
what it is
to make it
I did
He erects his seat
the map in his lap
cringes and he
quiets it
touching it gently with a
finger
tracing from its fold,
at the right,
from where they came
to where they were
confirming where they stopped
Where Buddy said
they made it
I got to throw the electricity
inside
to bring the pumps up
said Buddy
just a moment
and He loved how the
blue lines and
moments on them
stretched out absently,
allowing him a good look-see
around
or sniff his breath to
determine if it had gone bad
from breathing the whole night
through his mouth
like a brutish Neanderthal,
how these moments stretched
absently and
stirred his bladder
as he sat upright now
and Gravity fingered and undid
its button
a hot-red Neon light flickered
behind the tall plate glass
face
of the dingy white-and-green
tiled
station
as Buddy busied himself above
a metallic Bunn coffee machine
and
errant water dribbled on it
following ghost discolorations
of
other dribbles from
other sloppy pours
Buddy's tongue worked between
the gaps
in his teeth and with it he
pointed
around, out back,
the key’s hanging here
the coffeell be ready by the
time
youve relieved yourself
washed your face
brushed your teeth
and shook up your hair
and it was
and it smelled black
a black that wouldn’t forgive
cream
a black the octane he would
pump
into his Empty tank
Buddy’s no filter cigarette
was almost smoked down to his
lip
when he came back in for his
change.
A good ride ahead of you?
Taking my time.
Bout seven miles out of town,
east side,
just passed the billboard Doc’s
an old apple orchard,
then half-mile up the dirt road
there
an old quarry filled with
artesian water
a refreshin swim to
get the blood up, getcha rollin
if ya got the mind to
I would if I wasnt workin
Thank you very much
youre welcome I appreciate the
business
nice to see folks roamin the
wilds
seein stuff aint probably seen
in forty years
except by us
and because you aint lost
no. I aint lost.
Ah, them blue lines
I sure love the blue lines
they can make you dream
dream wonderful things
the most wonderful things
yes
yeah
I dreamed here
thats how I got here
I was dreamin
30 3. 11
