errol miller
Dixie's Long Gray Line
An hour of idleness
sweeping in it is a river
of despair and mini-madness
this perfumed wilderness
beautiful platonic tomorrow
with a ruby in its throat
where the iceman worked a stream
of consciousness simmers bloodlike
from a granite cliff of gray
we have found solace
in the epic twinkle of neon
an age of no reason
to the front of the room
a blue nun weeps for all of us
our prized possessions
our noose like sanity
our sad stories of last night
when men in capes
glided to the core of Earth
for each action a reaction
turning the corner into tomorrow
the silence of Tara's
bygone era overcame us
for we were lost
in summer's solstice heat
the mournful gears
of the universe lubricated
with the literature of hurting
maiden mucus and phlegm
and poignant authors rowing out
to meet a god they never knew
calling home to Mama
there is no answer
room in the inn
for other dusty travelers
but for us only the roar
of time's pistons churning
in musty parlors with
running lights extinguished.
