Up to Devil's Den (a poem)

Wednesday, March 5, 2025

Up just the other side of the Mississippi,
into Memphis for a second,
over the river, west,
up into Arkansas.

Straight for the Ozarks,
northwest into the devil’s country.

Devil’s Den—
up the foothills, full blast,
rocks and trees galore,
blazxing through.

Crawler.
Tweaker days, back in full swing,
till the next issue with my teeth.

The sticks, the woods,
hunting shrooms,
keep climbing—
the slip and war,
the mind gasps,
data lapse,
memory mishaps,
a swig of codeine
to keep things even.

Doors off, tops gone,
one-eyed and stumping—
let’s forget real life.

Trail of Tears,
fast-tracking across unmarked burial
of refugees,
murdered, exiled.

For rights were manufactured,
property.

Now get out of my way—
you have 30 days.

Felon neighbors,
enjoying my company,
pass the glass,
bemoan our station.

Here’s to the end—
ashes, embers, hot coal.
But the fuel is gone,
so watch it get cold.

A blanket,
but I hope we have enough.
More and more, asleep in their vehicle,
put out, disappointed,
in themselves, the world.

That’s where we are.
Hysteria.
Cue Def Leppard.
Run headlong into oblivion,
consuming large quantities of said sugar.

Camped in the hills,
spiraling road,
twisting stair,
Eureka Springs,
getting my spirit in shape.

Crying out to the gods.

They say you’re crazy.

Come on—let’s show ’em something.

Barking at the moon,
co-conspirators in the trailer park,
RVs and mobile homes, lifted,
on the road, wherever I may roam.

Metallica strike.
Pitchforks into spears.

The world is changing.

I watched her shoot.
Fearless, professional,
just before she collapsed.

Girl, breaking up—
in the storm,
taking on water,
waves,
without navigation.

Straight to the rocks,
the sirens watch,
humming a different tune.

A dirge.

End credits.

One more scene—
see if we continue into oblivion,
or if this is where it ends.

Take this exit.