(Medium) Red Minivan

I take another hit of this
Where’s Waldo red minivan shit,
exhale Happy Birthday to
the man who is dead. Raise a
toast to the memorized
face whose
lines are forgotten;
the stale poem with
arrhythmic inflection,
an affliction of battle scars
criss-crossing delicate
parts unguarded.

His benediction is
given in Spanish flamenco,
a staccato funeral,
gypsy guitar courting
dancers stomping in
leather-soled shoes—
nail heels and
clapping castanets
quaking the casket close up to the
belly of mount doom.

I never peeked over
the precipice via
drive-by. Never
leaped into a bar hop.
Dead men don’t walk,
but the
road is thick
with possession:
High Street
North Broadway
161
315
Olentangy, left lane…
Dodge Grand Caravan, Ford Freestar,
Toyota Sienna, Chevy Venture—
the make and model are elusive,
ever-changing but everywhere
dead men drive. To Pittsburgh, I’m sure.
To Byrne’s Pub on New Year. They ring in
the latest
with the old
bottle
building backbones
from resurrected skeletons.

Fuck you.
That’s what I tell
the needle of grief
going in, sharp point
piercing skin,
head back, sinking, caught in
the couch cushions again.
Not for you, dead man.
You should have killed me
then.
Run me down
with the minivan.
Not for you,
but for the ragged edges
of feet dragging;
for the flap of flesh
drooping; for the hang of head,
for the listless weight, for the
dull-eyed, misty waver of gaze,
for the long days and black nights
and tentative touches beneath covers
that lead to crying out
all those words piling up in the
rusty sink of subconscious
blurring dreams to smudges of
grease on Waterford China bone.

Bravo,
minivan demon.
Keep driving.