poetry

wasn’t that fun?

A funnel of suspect rust-nutted bolts...

Hundreds of miles driven
    To get there;
        Countless hundreds more
            To go back and back again
                To the same conspicuous ride:
                  One tortured set of oxidizing rails,
                    On a funnel of suspect rust-nutted bolts
                    And stilted steel so skewed it was obnoxious,
                Almost Seussian.
            But the thrill-of-dream drew us;
          Its alchemic seduction and misleading charm—
        A pinching cinch—
      Nailed us to the seatback of convenient commitment.
    We couldn’t push past the picket too fast:
    Giggles and nerves,
      Gratuitous swoons,
        Finger-braids and white-knuckle lust,
          The ant-legged sense of all things exhilarating
          Scintillating in the salt-prisms of sweat
        Bubbling above our bitten lips.
      A lurch.
  A last look ‘round.
A kinky, smell-of-greasy squeal.
A grating, squawking, mechanical mischief.
    Tracks, they clacked up the lift-hill
        Like a crazy-farm goose let loose in tap shoes.
             As the best in us,
              The crest crept up on us,
          Despite our ignoring it was ahead.
      We were willing to wake up dead
  On the back-page of a big-city paper
  From some absurdly fatal calamity in the linkage—
    Just to feel it.
      The happy-howl.
      The giddy-shrill screams.
    The clang-climbing a thinly galvanized giant’s back
  Just because he stood, a moment, still enough
For our tickets to get a fistful of his hair.
It was to experience the hand-wringing,
  The bang-dinging of dangerous believing,
    The heart wrestling, wrangling, wrenching love
      Off the busted axles of aloneness—
      And surviving it.
    Together.
  We should be shameless in wanting that,
  And in risking to have it for all time.
      But we were the odd chime:
          Desiring to devour the entire sky in a three-second slalom,
          The indelicate hands-of-gale tweezing our brows,
        Centripetal imps kneading our bowels
      Until we spiraled and looped into
    Unconscious nausea,
  The ejecta of it spattered upon our sleeves—
Where our hearts once were,
When we first boarded the futility of it under neon eaves.
  Screechingly,
    Knee-scratchingly,
      Too-suddenly slowing,
Then, slam-stopped,
It was bittersweetly
Done.
“Hell, no,” was my walk-away whisper
When you too-knowingly wept,
“Wasn’t that fun?”


Previous Post:
    Poetry: Selfsmith
        https://windstrewn.com/2018/08/28/selfsmith/


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