CirceA Poem by Preston Manning BernsteinCirce
I. Cyclops
In a strange city I fled after I flicked the lighter that burnt the beard of the boy from
I walked into a municipal park and sat on the rubber cheap gravel pit swing set facing
My black-sheened plastic cellphone that sat beside me on the fourth rung from top of the
The purple-grey midnight sky sank down into oily-slick glitter rock pavement, all dim
Sick-stomached, I crept up hills of neat rowed manicured lawns to retrace my steps past
Back inside I searched from back to front of the house for friendly
faces, finding evidence of a hasty exit, nothing left but cigarette butts and implied
II. Nausicaa
Surrounded by a mass of dwindling swirling shifting bodies I fought off
sleep with more malt and endured three hours worth of acoustic covers of Beatles,
A corolla of bleary swatches smudged and bled through into one another appeared and
“Look,” she said after parking on a street in front of sardine-tin tight rows of
I fell asleep in a room made of stained-glass and woke up to a packed living room of
In a plastic-stucco corporate Tex-Mex s**t shack I sucked down free water and ate
Driven back to my car, opening her car door I put my bare feet on hot black asphalt,
Turning the keys to the car, I traveled through congested University lanes, head buzzing
III. Ithaca
I would rather go mad, drifting through countless states and borders towards Mexico,
Dropping acid in abandoned Chicago slaughterhouses for nightmare trips with crusties,
Smoking rocks on beds of ash in crushed up Coke cans in Tulsa,
Mind constantly numb from cheap alcohol,
Dick and body sore from some lonely man or woman.
Rather eat peyote with old leather-skinned hippies in Death Valley or
Run through small town city streets stark naked and covered in garbage, screaming at
Lock myself in some motel six off the highway and never come out,
Then to ever go back to University tested drudgery, drowned in papers and amphetamines,
Avoiding ex-girlfriends at parties and enduring dead-bored minds fumble through
Screaming wildly during brief bits of static-free clarity before going home to hours spent
I would gladly leave, and probably will at least once, but deep down I'd know I'd miss the
Which is why I'm on this highway driving back home right now.
© 2009 Preston Manning Bernstein |
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Added on April 25, 2009 Last Updated on September 16, 2009 AuthorPreston Manning BernsteinCharleston, SCAboutAspiring professional writer. Copy-Editing Editorial Feature Writing Reviews Poetry Prose more..Writing
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