Who saw the burning car on the bridge outside the mall. The fire trucks and the firemen standing in a pond of ash dirty water. Cars forced into a single lane rolling past the wreckage of a total loss fire. The air is thick with sweat ash and smoke. It smells like some life ended there. It felt like driving a car through a grave. It looked like some sad finality.
Yamah, the Hindu god of death is usually found hitch hiking on dark, county roads. His hands smell of dear's blood and moonlight. His eyes are the color of asphalt painted with spilled vitality from things both ignorant and wild. There is a thick musk in the air at every place he has laid down to sleep. There are tombstones on the side of the road that warn travelers away from stopping here for anything but a suicide.
The part of the universe that is Pennsylvania contains a multitude of wisdom and it communicates through signs. There is a need for prophets and interpreters of dreams. A burning car on a bridge outside the mall is a sign of things to come. I know this like I know where I put my car keys every night
I know nobody lives forever.
I know nobody loves forever.
MARK BORCZON is a working class poet from Erie Pennsylvania. His most recent book is Whatever This Is on Poets Hall Books. He is 55.