There were palm trees yes
alight and burning to the ground
as we watched from the seat of
my 1940s Ford Coupe
the leather sweating like us
from the sweltering heat
of the midday sun. Your eyes
read why and who did this
breaking the silence as golden
glittering palms rained fire upon
the black hood outside our
glass fishtank windshield. You
broke it. And there is no
answer just the cold unforgiving
tension of a slow death under
the intense desert sun
withering the green love
of passion in an apocalypse
wondering who will give in first
and why. The sun? Or the
congo maybe where nothing
grows anymore and the solstice
is even further away dimming
under the ash-night sky.
What good is a car during
the apocalypse? Just run
like hell under that OJ sun
hold the pulp in the
golden burning hour
evening music whose rays
incinerate. I hold the charred
palm between blistering
fingers shedding snake skin
biting tails forever, and ever
Amen.
And my green eyes meet
your cold grey ones
like this is the big one
like cross your heart
like I was talking a pledge.
The gas
you say. How hard
can you hit it?
