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Tom Kelly: Big Budget Apocalypse

August 14, 2017 by PBQ Leave a Comment

As old timey Westerns foretold, cowboys
reclaimed the dust lands: black bandanas

sewn with coyote claws, buzzard  
plume, King James Bible

cutouts cursing the world
to come. Next, satellites abandoned

air & crashed subtle as heaven
-destined skydivers shrugging ripcord

disaster. This attracted bystanders:
basement-dwelling cyberpunks later

reduced to neon puddles.
When you wandered the sites,

stone-faced, suited men cordoned
the perimeters with tinted vans,

thorn wire, & declined the populace
explanation: Keep moving, mind

your business became morning’s tone
-deaf creed. Hiking home, ambulances

zoomed by like afterthought. Dead
thrushes littered sidewalks.

You noticed a fly-festered jackrabbit
crucified to chain link & didn’t stop once

to consider lunch’s appeal or the smell
of storms stampeding inland.

Then, hours piled into a pyramid
of Dos Equis cans, laptop life support: Refreshing

newsfeeds like morphine drip, you blacked
out in a fish taco platter the size of Montana.

Quarantine seized the district
by the time you awoke & bit wind

of wasp clouds, war germs, stars
logging off ‘till night turned

kaput like the jukebox diner
that erupted across the street.

On your balcony: a shadow,
backlit by burning buildings,

tickled the ukulele. You followed
the tune’s trail past screen door

to ash showers & a blonde
flushed from boxed rosé. Fumes

of purging lottery roiled,
but the hunger took you.

Encircled by cigarettes,
smoking halo, you fucked

a prayer desperate as walking
dead men swig their last single malts.

In the brilliant blaze, she wept
puddles on your sternum

& petitioned violent weather
to slaughter the city’s remains.

All night, dog choirs sparred
for merchants’ limbs; orgasms

ached the air; counting gods
pawned like poker chips

worth three squares & a pillow,
contrails tally-marked the sky.

When her eyes swung open at dawn,
you’d popped a Xanax & buttoned

your best blazer: knapsack with cash
wads, spare shades, & sandwiches ready.

Outside: safe as a carcass.
The building would cave come noon.

Crossing the causeway, she joined roving
caravans bound for promised lands

where holy bums & prospectors bred.
Soon, night stalked your boots.

Bonfires bloomed on the bluffs.
Then, the red road rolled out like a carpet

across horizons struck stupid with stars.
Cast in the moon’s spotlight,

you wandered further west.

Filed Under: Contributors 93, Issue 93, Poetry, Poetry 93 Tagged With: Contributors 93, Issue 93, Poetry, Poetry 93, Tom Kelly

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