Mexican Free-tail bats emerge
From a cave in southern Texas
The sky is fractured – black against
The deep blue-gray of an aging day
That won’t come again.
I climb back into the baby blue
Cadillac convertible, sixty-five,
Ignite the engine and settle in,
Another long haul ahead of me
In a world that isn’t round.
Crystalline deposits smother
All memories of a life once
Experienced in reds and oregano.
No details, only patterns,
Repetition ad nauseum.
I have been the only constant
Enslaved in karmic chains
Remembering Anne, who sang
Eagles tunes, even as she rolled
pizza dough and lies about her past.
“Don’t Mess With Texas
passes me again, and the clock
reads two forty seven. Steak and steer,
and beer and brawling. Above in the heavens,
the stars collapse instantly.
Monday morning, awake in my bed,
That moment your brain knows
Just before the alarm captures you.
No bats, no beer, I remain,
the constant in the Hell
Of my own choosing.
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