Rainy nights in my Neon-966
white seats awash
the color of day-glow pearls,
a can of Rainier tucked
warm between my legs.
Sadie in the backseat
swears she saw a mutie
last Friday night in Denny Park,
sulking in the shadows
with the ghost of Mia Zapata,
(so she’s clearly already fried)
Easy Street Records,
drinks at Sakura’s [æ¡œ],
then on to Jaron’s house
where he sells us something
that’s supposed to be like Syth-2.
Pill popped and pinpoint pupiled
and we’re finally cooking
bass thudding
with the drug in our ears
the city comes to life,
even the bums cast
indescribable tremors of light
with their every movement,
vivid auras in the dark.
Off of Yesler
we stumble across
an abandoned-house party,
some local wailers playing inside
probably talentless
but to us it resounds
an orgasm in minor key
so shots and beers
and someone gives Carter
a long wet kiss,
but when empty kegs
put the band to rest
we end up driving down the road,
chests ahum with the buzz
of truthful and passionate
and pointless conversation.
Later,
smoking and throwing bottles
off a cliffside near the highway
we can just barely glimpse,
through the ocean’s spray,
the clean white blinking lights
of the new city
hovering out above Puget Sound;
all alloy and pretension
a hundred thousand people,
kids of six or seven
whose feet have never
touched the ground,
automated, self sustained,
and from where we stand,
the whole thing smaller
than my hand held up to the sky.
Somehow it seems
higher and higher each day,
proof maybe that the old city
is still sinking,
after all these years
succumbing to the soft
wet maw of the earth.
illustration is from Unsplash and was published under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication
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