In tight couplets, John Trigonis writes of desire, car wrecks, desperation, and Superbowl XLII.
Crashed my lightning blue ’89 Cavelier into the 1&9
divide after the Giants won Superbowl XLII.
So I wandered the Jersey City underworld cloud heavy
passed motorcycle hangovers and White Mana
thinking how a lonesome star like mine could get the
moon’s attention without police and hospital
lights on my tail to sweep up the busted glass and
me off someone else’s powdered lines.
Everybody’s drunk tonight, Saturn-ringed, speeding
with some sweet heartache wrapped around a
tattooed arm like a worn-out Timex or a cheap bomb.
I think about the snapshots of my autopsy haunting
the front page of the Journal, my little roadside diversion
loitering the Youtube expanse for Stoned-Age
frat boys with nothing better to do than record my last
minutes for his 15 of fame, my own cheated for a
late night thumbsucker, platinum second mate in heels,
says she’s been searching for a strong sailor with an
ashtray heart so she can burn away the last of her regrets.
What else can you say to an offer like that when
you’re dizzied off a 12-pack of Bud, lost in the beautiful
car crash beneath the bridges of her eyebrows?
Sure, I tell her, and tearing apart my ivory button down,
I lay her head on the scar where my heart used to be.
I’ll put out the pain, Love. In both of us.
Read more of John Trigonis’s poetry.
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