Pre Car Bomb Noise
“I see your face, and I let you own me.”
“Come have at us we are strong.”
– Julian Plenti
A street and a sidewalk.
A bluff of storefronts.
A smattering of food carts.
At Camden subpharm,
looking for ramped-up lollies,
we meet two broken dollies.
filled with breath,
toe tips to split ends.
We say seductively,
“The cars are double parked.”
They spit back raw ill street noise,
jittery with cable confusion.
Passing trolls, rubber eyeballing us,
glitch-pause in their hurried
march over Camden concrete.
We say humbly,
“Desire is the mixing of red and blue wires
when purple is the color of self destruction.”
Their eyelid blush rises with comprehension,
as bouldery men toting black bags push past.
A dolly’s bared limbs are sinew-held.
Half empty, half filled; they smell of
plastic-wrapped hothouse flowers,
alive out of season. Undead lilies.
We say vexingly,
“You taste just like the river Styx.”
The dollies’ lolly sticks sag now.
We lift d2’s grayed-out wings.
She flew … once upon a time.
We reset d1’s crashed mainframe.
She knew … once upon a time.
The dollies, unfamiliar with ease,
punch our bright pulsing sockets,
nerve twitch, muscle spasm jolt.
All landmarks dissolving into sparkles,
our house lights dim for the show,
and then spike red again.
The darkness spins our dials around
the bend again, refreshing a message
A heart that fuels a body in space,
fuels not the dark matter in between.
The key that triggers a car’s ignition,
fuels not the body that sets the charge.
Our dollies turn away toward subpharm fixes
as Camden street surfers converge on desire
and we bathe our sore sockets in the heavy hum
of pre car bomb noise.