The Central Reservation
By Dave Migman
Shattered sundown hobo standing at the lights waving a guitar of sawdust at the shimmering lanes. It all goes down at the intersection, as soon as the red eye blinks the tall, sunshine tribals (who live in shacks of faith, filth and fibre scattered further down the highway) bless the cars with mobile plug-ins, car phone batteries, flowers made from rust.
The pale slabs, with guts wedged behind steering wheels of their manhood, stare dispassionately at the sight. They are on missions to pick up beer (return and sift through the scorched flesh).
Henry goes down that way. His song is never over, screeched at every vehicle - for dumping him here. Stranded on this island.
THE SPEAR - he yells
BRING OUT YOUR SPEARS!
He’s right you know. Hostage to the blue-eyed indifference. Seen it all before. Every time the cattle crow in the market we seek to scrape a little fat to burn. We see them everyday. The clown, frothing at the mouth, bitten dog crazy that one.
Papa Nomad in his flannel shirt and golfing hat (culled from receptacles of trash). He slips along the street, his walk is a talk, it’s a hip tune. Across the lanes ole Henry, still there man, gawking at the sight. Crazy nomad bastard skipped across six lanes, dodging the traffic, gliding through effortlessly. Not a bead of sweat on that loony tune.
At the next lights we’ll find Charlie the mango man plying sweet boxes. Six to a pack, while Chipper sits in the shade packing them boxes over and over, sunny side up.
Trundle of wheels as the trolleys arrive, the trashies pushing their precarious stacks. Bundles of dirt, wrapped up in refuse like Russian dolls of ruin. Scrappers and wheezers, their tiny wheels resigned to burden.
Henry says it’s all a river of eyes man. Endless and crazy. Makes you crazy to think about it. The hypnotic waves of those who blankly stare at the lights.
They are sleeping - he says.
They are dreaming their journey.
Old man Blink is eighty and he was of faster cars, and whiter roads. He is gangrenous of mind, he is too far gone to ever crease the corners of his mouth, other than to frown. All the nights of fear turned him on himself. Gristle in the spine, inching up the central column.
You’ll die alone - Henry thinks, spitting on the fender as it pulls off. Henry reaches behind the column, withdraws of the sawdust of his muse. A crazy tune to ease in the night.
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The Central Reservation
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