Six Miles to Providence

Part One

In a mid-day metallic dreamscape
We came upon crosswind battered
Dust bowl shanty town mystics in gold and purple shrouds
Bartering poker chips for herbs, spices, fine silks, silver and cotton
In warm dark places even Fremont feared to tread

Waiting for the ships to burn

They cheered a joyful shrill
As the destitute were baptized in the Grand Prismatic Spring
Beneath crystalline blue skies, bison and aspen
While buttering their toast

Waiting for the ships to burn

We watched minimum wage junkies
Turn towards the static empire Mecca of midnight infomercials and televangelist
With clean palms pressed against the moist Earth
Radiating hope

Waiting for the ships to burn  

We listened to oral epics of
Modern day pilgrims chasing vice between
Bright white roadside reflectors and liquor bottles
Beaconing them towards paradise and pay-as-you-go morality

Waiting for the ships to burn

I observed doubtfully
The commercial meditation of roadside monks donning Sanbenito
Amongst the neon menthol blue haze of truck stop slot machines
Mass produced pamphlets promising holy communion
And free Sunday brunch  

Waiting for the ships to burn

Some shook down Shakespeare was was choked out on Ocracoke smoke
Banging on tin pans from Idaho to Pocomoke
Searching for the universal rhythm with skeletons in the drift
Powder on his fingers
And stark conviction carried by kind words of the dead

Waiting for the ships to burn

Part Two

And when Janice poured the last dollop of buttermilk pancake mix onto the hot skillet of The same diner she had worked at since she was eighteen before buying a one way ticket to Bolivia where she would live in the mountains illegally for twenty years before she would Return home trodden and cancer stricken only to tell her children on her death bed that She never really loved them

There was number eleven

And when the Oklahoma bombing ripped through the walls of Babylon like Papier Mâché

There was number eleven

And when Dorthy lost her first baby tooth in bowl of instant mashed potatoes and was too Afraid to tell her parents  

There was number eleven

And as Mr.Woodson polished his seven inch K-Bar before entering Nicely's and devouring a Root beer float as he watched Ishmael  pick up his pressed khakis that he had planned to Wear to his last AA meeting

There was number eleven

And as the tender green sprout was jostled from the soil by spring rains and sun

There was number eleven

And when they constructed a thirteen foot tall wooden reindeer to marshal in
An indifferent prophet from a bitter latitude

There was number eleven

And when her twisted platonic love
Shed light on all corners of the room
And cleared the heavy horizon of a star-spangled miasma

There was number eleven

Part Three

But today was different
Because I shielded myself from the
Serpentine anti-logic of the archangel
And tried to forget the times I thought I never believed
And the times I believed I never had a thought  
And spit on the place where
Apathy was considered passion
Cowardice considered bravery
Debt considered wealth
And inferiority considered superiority

I reached into my pocket and relished the cool smooth finish
Of my mailbox key
Before opening number eleven  

Inside I found a letter
With no stamp or address
Merely blank and perfectly rectangular

It is still sitting on my dresser
Among crushed soda cans
Scissors with orange handles
And torn ticket stubs
Because I don't have the nerve to open it yet

Not until the ships have burned