’67 Chevelle convertible
candy apple red & spangled chrome
—twin Barbies bounce shotgun out from Cali
no strangers to powerglide shifts
g-strings, chic
perfume of ganja & coconut
oil, liberal, sea-mist’d cleavage
—a blow through Death Valley
hit Vegas in situ.
Circus Circus
downshift to cruise the Boulevard in shades
—got no patience for this fake bull-
shit town—
where the only viable culture you’ll find’s
in a prostitute’s
pap smear fused like Chunky
Monkey to Ben & Jerry’s fork’d tongue.
Men and women parade our headlights
in gaudy peacock processions
as a stale
c-note winks to fool’s gold, then crystallizes
into
—a solid shade of past-due.
Neon turquoise & parakeet yellow
dazzle the bewildered
iris, kick the chittering bitches
to the curb
& pump pedal to the metal
in a snappy blastoff beat, migrate south
to blurred flocks of Azteca stars.
At Teec Nos Pos
take the Navajo road south into the heart
of the White Mountains.
—3:24 A.M.
lost in Show Low—
where Venusians must’ve crash landed to mingle
with the local folk
& buried their adobe Hobbiton
in the sand dunes.
A war council of stark peaks jag sky
austere, wigged & powdered sentinels ring
like dragon’s teeth buttressing
courtyard towns—
beneath a glassy pool of wheeling
galaxies
—they roam—these mighty, earth-
bound cloud
giants.
One way in, one way out
in Globe an electric sign announces
roads are iced solid, frozen
stiff with no way in
& no way out.
There’s no help for it.
—Double back.
One love is lost
like the nip of a flea.
One, a Great White
chawing off legs at sea.
I’ll never be free
this string of charcoal empties . . .
I wish it would burst
when you left you took more than just
the furniture—
and now . . .
All that remains is the stain of these missing
buttons
I’m a coat of ghosts . . .
rags whistling in the wind.
No hope?
Oh, you might recall . . .
It took me
a week to muster up the courage
but I floated it out there, a red balloon
sent off with a rose and ten thousand
muttered
curses—
Not a chance in hell, Mister.
But you called and we talked
and we laughed and I recited my sorry little poems
til your breath caught and I thought . . .
It could happen.
Then that first day—
We were the only two
to brave the walks of Brookfield Zoo
that deserted day, that wonderful day, in February.
Blasted by Canadian winds
and
I don’t recall how we
got in
but the snow was so white and so bright and it was so cold
it seemed like it done up
and froze the whole world
into a solid sheen of gray
like seeing through a sparkling
lens
wrapped
in
cheesecloth.
(Even
the polar bears refused to be seen.)
And we talked, though
the words
chattered like ice cubes and crumbled
in our mouths—
So we walked
while you tugged my arm
hung on, drugged me with your perfume
til we found
the
famous . . .
Baboon Island House.
Our second date at a suburban ice rink
watching hockey players
and
sipping hot chocolate—
Long legs, firm
and
scissor-kicking
in
my
fireman's carry . . .
Shrieking laughter at the garbage can.
But it was a month
later
in front of your sad
little rabbit-eared
tv
me watching
Dances with Wolves
(modified to fit that screen?)
with
your head in my lap, fast asleep . . .
About four degrees too hot to relax.
When your breathing
changed
and (oh!) our hands met
formed an alliance and too quick
for the naked eye to follow
fumbled fast at slow zippers
and stubborn buttons
even
as
we
tumbled
wrestling
to the floor—
Until the sun came up and glittered on puddles of ice.
Now, it’s all crystallized
like water particles massed beneath
the surface, four years of living together bubbling up
like violet quartz
resolving
into
a
violent clutch
of
trillion-cut diamonds.
And suddenly I find
I can no longer afford these memories.
You thought I was indifferent
(I was just different)
You believed I took it all for granted
(but granted, you never asked)
You claimed that for men it’s all just sex . . .
(But you never saw the smile in my eyes
when I’d wake up
in the middle of the night
content
to feel that arm-and-a-leg draped over mine)
It's only now, years later, that I realize . . .
You were my close encounter with Virtue—
spied for a doe-eyed instant in headlights.
While I am but a snowman—
lost without the crooked carrot nose you stole.
M. Andre Vancrown works as an award-winning technical writer based in Chicago, IL. A writer since his late teens, his poems have appeared in a variety of journals in both the U.S. and U.K. He is currently peddling his first book of collected poems in the hope that it will add a dimension to his bibliography beyond the growing and illustrious list of pro bono accomplishments. For more information about the poet and his published works, please visit http://www.geocities.com/mandrevancrown.