Pilgrims long poem

Photo by HeyRocker

We found the kid outside of McCleary
walking in a daysuit like some land owner
off some nineteenth-century hacienda
he got in the car
stinking of moss and unwashed armpits
there were at least two kinds of fluff in his beard

I took a nail in my sandal, he said
revealed he was hiking to Satsop
to trespass on the unfinished nuclear reactor
camp inside the cooling towers
fill them with religious smoke

we were still driving the old station wagon
like a boat on wheels
just put it in the center of the current
let the white and yellow lines draw it onward

my wife was pregnant
so much so we were sure this one was going to stick
the seatbelt in the front seat hurt her belly
she didn’t want to pick the kid up
he held nothing in his hands
he had the arms and legs of a fat man
a belly you’d think someone hollowed out
with a gangrenous icecream scoop

we’re thinking of eating in Elma, I told him
he understood he was welcome
more welcome than the rusted farm trucks
decomposing in the parking lot we came to
the sign of home cooking being a thin line
greasy smoke the wayward gulls detoured
into a vee to avoid

we ate like royalty inside for six bucks a head
the waitress’ had purplish eyes
bruisy irises pupils like saucers
she claimed to know the kid from a past life
maybe we went to grade school together, she said
maybe I let you lick paste off my fingers

we left them both near the dessert case
the station wagon roared at sunset
receding pink and the cows ambling home
both sides of the two lane smelling of manure
we raced the dusk toward Aberdeen
hoping to find the statue of Kurt Cobain
we knew we were having a boy
crazy about that heavy music
we wanted to dedicate our fetus
to the proposition of noise as a way of life

the dark got us and we missed everything
our tank ran dry of will in a place called Cosmopolis
dead-ended at the back of the golf course
the fishy breath of the ocean drifting up to us
everything was undone to that point
everything we had was borrowed from another generation
my wife said, we won’t recognize the turning point until it’s past
then she fell asleep and I walked around
until I could see the lights of nowhere towns
gripping the nipple of Grays Harbor
a brilliant baby with no eyes
and no sense of what was feeding it

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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