New Writing (2 Poems)

Joke About Car Engines

It was clutching, full moon glow,
breathing headlights, ruby-red,
park our cars along the roadside,
by the uneven fenceposts, by the rusting twine,
watch the dust-dew, starry-eyed cascade.

Hands rhythmic, sweating clear and cold,
tapping on the windshield tinting,
rubber and steel between us and a four-foot
fall to the ground, rolled around in darkness:
something I wish.

There was cowardice and cutting license cards,
trembles of breath beneath the drive-in light;
it became of itself, thought to say anything,
oh, and never could be done, though,
by the end, it was known.

Incandescent

Skin of a wax mask,

sweating plastic cups,

drawn tight, hour after hour,

deeper and deeper, pores and freckles,

exploding with lacquer-grease finish.

This is the light's perishing, kept alive

by tubes and knobs, pins and switches;

farmers in formers ages had been correct,

never meant for this time, never meant

to be so defiant.