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You're driving I-10 __
somewhere between Pecos
and Midland __ feeling grounded, all things considered
is grazing the fence line of radio aerials
when a wave of white noise swells
and a story crashes over you __the legend
of the Horse Latitudes __ something
about the roiling vicissitudes
of the Cape Horn ocean compels
sailors to throw their horses
overboard to stay afloat __ they found skeletons
with their necks broken
right next to the sunken boats, in the same time frame
the yellow stripe in the road turns
brown and then widens and crosses over
into your lane __ a streak
of umber and then chestnut
for miles, you can see
that it's starting to turn again, this time coppery
in smell and it's damp
ahead and there are definitely flashes
of red and blue and like
you always do in an emergency
you slow down and Oh,
God, it's a horse in the road,
lying on its side, still
tied to the trailer behind a pick-up truck__
it's hind quarters quivering in the blood
soaked arms of some of the men
there are children crying and a woman
is getting a gun from the cab
as you swing wide around the extended neck
you see one of its eyes __ an unbroken egg
full of the white sky __ suddenly
you know it's all wrong, all those skeletons
at the bottom of the sea__
they jumped.
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I have walked these streets
like a cop walks his beat
my eyes taking in her every movement
my brain storing real and imagined changes
in sixty-seven years
her changes have not eluded me
she is older now
more wrinkled and cranky
much like me
but the two of us manage to get along
like business partners looking after
each others interest
Market Street once a fashionable socialite
now a gaudy whore
Mission Street once the home of the Irish
now glossed over
tough looking youths with dagger stares
where you guard your wallet
like a eunuch guards the harem door
you have to learn to give and take
you have to learn to adjust
the city is like a cup of strong coffee
stir her enough and the flavor floats
to the top
I have walked these streets all my life
in good condition and broken down physique
knowing there is no city like her
in the entire world
she is like a pair of empty shoes
sitting under the bed
with no feet big enough to fill them
she is like a squirrel running between
the live wires of a utility poll
she is like the last bullet in the
executioner's gun
she is like a room full of poets
crazed with their own conversation
she is like billie holiday
drenched in sweat
she is like the face of God
all forgiving in her insatiable lust
for life
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Terry
Lucas grew up in the Four Corners area of New Mexico, receiving his B.A.
in philosophy and English from New Mexico State University, studying
under the poet, Keith Wilson, who remains his mentor and friend.
He
graduated from Southwestern Seminary and served on church staff for some
three years before doing post-graduate work in clinical psychology at
North Texas State University.
He
has lived on the West Coast, both in the U.S. and in Canada, relocating
to Chicago five months ago to work on an M.F.A. in poetry at Columbia
College.
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A.
D. Winans is a native San Francisco poet poet who graduated from San
Francisco State College (now University). He edited Second Coming Mag/Press
for 17 years. He is the author of over 35 books and chapbooks of poetry
and prose and his work has appeared internationally.
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