.................................
goodbyes in the time of burning taco john's
(an easter poem)
.................................

her no-nonsense motorbike confronts
my no-nonsense little car hand holds hair
the laughter silent in her stare invites
am i taking liberties no fondle me she laughs
out loud i dare not fondle i touch-cut
ceremonial grooves straight lines
tracing etching carving sketching
fingertip for stylus gripped by ten o'clock
near-still chill of the neoned grungy parking lot
filled with cars filled with the lighthouse light
of the ambulance reef of the fire truck peninsula
not the deathly twin sister isles of the tow truck
we think we see ahoy when sailing swaying our masts
creaking on the ship of enthusiastic extravagant
talk glassed in glassed out storytelling in stride
cut in mid-splash as we rush out onto the deck of
street life out of the ice cream hold ben and jerry's
shop what backdrop for sayoonara romancing

the taco john's is seriously smoking up she says
now golds now reds flash bathe her skin unseen by me
in the sun now raving up her hair in highlights
even she could not industrially engineer to stay
the night with her and awake with her in the morning
i cut within the modest cut of her folk blouse simple
slow defining strokes from top to angling down
i'm putting chill into you no frown

her no-nonsense motorbike confronts
my no-nonsense little car some folks
have friends to ceremonially witness we have
steeds instead to cut through the modest farm night
of indiana roadspace to ride in the opposite
directions and ruminate on this good friday
from this good parking lot where we pose poised
framed preserved and envisaged by the suffering
of taco john's explicitly rising to heaven not
unlike a pagan offering now wafting in a not-fog
assuming the burden of all sinners but not us for
we are pure and will remain desirous thus innocent
protected by the sacrosanct immunity of passion
saved by our own inescapable beauty and not by
this taco john's this son of god this daughter
of lesbos this corporate franchise ministered to
by the anxious supplicants and apostles of the
city of west lafayette this icon this altar
this sepulcher of eucharist tortilla and blood
fountaincola this framing crux this jeweler's box
for our luxurious our intense our no-nonsense

non-kissing.

.................................
Marek Lugowski
.................................

 
Copyright © Marek Lugowski
March 1996

...a poem in this room by Kim Hodges...
The way back home
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