poetry and poets

Monday, January 03, 2005


ony gallucci

Okay. If it weren't for the neon fuzz pulsing in the dawn you might not even conceive a place that had north and south, east and west, hard and soft, cruel and kind. If you had never driven a highway through the frontier, meaning the edge of some kind of nowhere, you might mistake the fog pall for beauty, the benign sort they pin on gallery walls and invite discussion and donation with. If you could not rip apart the narrow difference between the sweet aroma of tortillas and the sweet aroma of bagels in the center of the most volatile diasporas, not the obvious charity-suckled ones, you might be the poor man who failed to make it rich off disaster.

Then if you have a car, let's say you do, you stop at Chuy's, or if it reeks of stale beer and stale piss, what's the difference, and cigarette ads compete with lottery ads, and you can't see anyone awake or alive, or at Wally's, or some other place named after someone you don't know but suppose you might if you lived here, in a place like this, in a place very much like this, but you don't, and you need a place like that place where you come from, let's say you'd rather drive on, take a chance on running out of gas somewhere further from a place that you might know or from someone you might have met, let's say with your car you drive on. What kind of fear fuels you, pushes you down the road, makes you finally stop. Makes you step out of your car door clearly at risk, clearly afraid, clearly dead.