Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lawrence Hall Feb 2017
A Burner on the Bridge

A burner on the bridge.  A human burns,
Trapped in technology and beer and fire
We hear the cold dispatch, the desperate call
To go, to see, to mend, if possible
We drive.  The flashers, blue and red, rotate
In the startled faces of those we pass
At speed, Hail Mary speed, surreal speed
Time, motion, space, and light obscure the night

In a pattern tail lights wink dim, then bright
Stalled traffic makes a long glowworm in reds
Boats, trailers, trucks, tankers, Volkswagens, Fords,
People in shorts drift around, slug Cokes, laugh
Unshaven men smoke cigarettes and swear
Blue-haired killers in Chrysler New Yorkers
Blink blankly through bifocals in the glare
Of flashers and flashlights, flares and taillights.
A burner on the bridge.  A Human burns.

We drive slowly through the curious crowds
Who mill about and stare and point and laugh
They consider a charred corpse fair reward
For being delayed on their trip home from the lake
When they ‘rive home they’ll hoist stories and yip:
“I was there; I seen it, man; it was gross!”
But some already are anxious to go
They honk, and pop a top, and cuss the cops.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

Below the bridge, old, silent water lurks
Oozing warmly, fetidly, in its drift
Slithering blackly in the warm spring night
A silent observer of fire and death
A carrier of beer cans and debris,
Radiator coolant, plastic, and blood
Concrete pylons pounded into the mud
Where once were trees.  And now the water sees
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

The bridge is an altar.  The wreckages
Are vessels sacred to our gods, the dead
Are sacrifices to our gods, an incense of death
Our offering is broken flesh, and blood:
“The is my body, burnt on this spring night;
This is my blood, shed on the center stripe.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burns.

A shapeless hat among the smoking ash,
Old clothes, a shoe, cans of beer, fishing lures:
The sad trifles and trinkets of the dead
Now, firemen in their yellow rubber suits
Climb slowly through the tortured, broken steels
And gently stow a man into a bag
Ashes and smoke, green radiator fluid
The old river flows, wherever it goes.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.

Hours later: coffee at the Dairy Queen
High school baseball players yelp cheerfully as
They wreck fast cars in a video game.
Under the fluorescents, the flashers seem
Still to turn, endlessly turn, in the night
Hamburgers, possibly char-broiled, are gulped
Sloppily, laughingly, as cleated feet
And deep-fried breath cheer a video death.
A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.

A burner on the bridge.  A human burned.
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Wandering the ridge line
alone on high alert,
I kept my head on a swivel
as I moved down
into the humid-cool-mist
toward high camp.

Boulders strewn about
the size of Volkswagens
littered the landscape
as I walked
cautiously
expecting to see
Teradactyls in flight,
scavenging for their
next meal.

This place was the real deal,
barren, rugged & brutal,
the place where flying dinosaurs
could ruin your day.

It's no wonder most
people never come up here
to play. Alpinists say
they love it that way,
the fewer the better.

But I have my doubts.
I read something somewhere
about being able to outrun
your mates in the event
of an aerial carnivore-attack.
'Cause out here all alone,
I was an easy meal,
a sitting duck,
fodder for those
vicious-creatures.

I was overjoyed
when I saw the yellow speck
of my nylon tent.
I jumped with happiness,
thanked the mountain-gods
for my safe passage,
warm soup & gossamer feathers,
a restive-stronghold from
hungry reptiles!
Greyson Feb 2021
I am from black chipped nail polish
And hand me down flannels
I am from Saturday morning flapjacks
And car rides with no destinations
I am from secret kisses in the backseat
And the soft tune of a Fleetwood Mac vinyl
I am from open mics and spilling my guts through poetry
And cigarette burns on second hand couches
I am from the strong aroma of incense and cheap cologne
And scattered ashtrays
I am from sweaty strangers laying around my house
And broken guitar strings
I am from the sweet smell of a cigar and a new book
And the hum of my old man's Volkswagens engine
I am from being tortured by my own head and past
and showing it through short bitten nails and blackened lungs
Heat-shrunk toe-cleaning brush with reversible skin skimmer for sale. Come while the savings are hot! Experience total intolerance at the French exhibit with real-live French women who are willing & able to do French stuff. Don't wait or hesitate! Enjoy 20%-off! Reel in the savings on fishing tackle. Heap piles of **** into a truck. Lean on a wooden fence for 2 hours without supervision. Do you like to bathe with men, especially gay ones? Let 45 ex-lesbians show you how it's done with no questions asked. Have you ever prayed to Jesus for 1,000 days in a row and still not gotten that new V.W.? Well pray no more! New Volkswagens are available now for 20%-off with no questions asked. But how is this possible?

— The End —