Throwing Shit at the Moon

image borrowed from bing

Throwing Shit at the Moon

Where in hell are those
silver skate keys for the sidewalk rollers,
the pungent inner tubes for the
fleet of fat bike adolescent transporters,

the raw wind whipping in your hair
while vectoring personal muscle volition,
unfettered by tiger-striped helmets,

those public phones hanging next to
ice machines at 7-11, lonely phone
booths standing in parking lots, or
alongside hardware stores, their violated
phone books lying half naked, askew
from having their yellow pages torn out,
or those 50’s phone numbers that still
had the name of trees in them,

the nickel colas, the 19 cent burgers,
the crackle of dual glass pack mufflers,
poodle skirts and lacy petticoats,

real hard ice cream milkshakes, complete
with the tall stainless steel mixing cup,
still resplendent with luscious refill,

horse meat at the butcher’s, that sickly
sweet smell as it fried up in cast iron skillets;

yeah, Christ, I know dearest children,
just another sexagenarian howling at
technology like an old dog baying
at those sirens you cannot hear.


Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #30 over on Magpie Tales 105

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