To Sacrifice a Bavarian Roadster
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/425/1/To-Sacrifice-a-Bavarian-Roadster/Page1.html
Kevin Dobbs
Kevin Dobbs returned to the USA
recently after 18 years in Asia. He’s Dean of Language Arts and Fine
Arts at Yuba College in Northern California and has placed poems,
fiction, and essays in many journals and anthologies including Chelsea,
Raritan: a Quarterly Review, The New York Quarterly, Carolina
Quarterly, Florida Review, Sou’wester, Soundings East, Poet Lore,
Mid-American Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, Karamu, Gulf Stream, Writer’s Forum, and New Delta Review. By Kevin Dobbs
Published on 09/16/2009
You need something blunt
With murderous history: a tire iron,
An old one from some forgotten
Esso Station, a four-pronged, black star
Gone sticky from the oily hands
Of hard-working grease monkeys.
You need an Ash Can mechanic’s bay
That Hopper should’ve painted
With murderous history: a tire iron,
An old one from some forgotten
Esso Station, a four-pronged, black star
Gone sticky from the oily hands
Of hard-working grease monkeys.
You need an Ash Can mechanic’s bay
That Hopper should’ve painted
You need something blunt
With murderous history: a tire iron,
An old one from some forgotten
Esso Station, a four-pronged, black star
Gone sticky from the oily hands
Of hard-working grease monkeys.
You need an Ash Can mechanic’s bay
That Hopper should’ve painted
But with more people than usual; you need
A gang: teachers, cooks, carpenters,
Barbers, librarians, long into their sad
Careers, and all with tire irons and dreams
Of clobbering Bavarian Roadsters. You need
To gather and scheme under the bay door
As the Roadster rumbles in the driveway.
First, start Goose-stepping. March
Around and around the hydraulic lift, rusted
Half way up. Take in Hopper’s
Slanted light, the beams charging
You up. Now cut figure 8s over the slab.
Dream, giddy boys, dream that you
Can warm infinity down to a good-hard
Hand shake. Everybody shake hands.
Now, all at once, run into
The driveway, gang up on the Roadster.
Fling up the hood, yank the spark plug caps.
Roll the Roadster over, belly up. Pry off
The exhaust pipe, swing it into the bay.
Shatter the axles. Pop the tires, which sump
With the slow wheeze of a baby’s
Burp. Splay the spoked wheels.
Roll the Roadster back over, puncture
The fuel injector, smash the fuse box,
Drain the radiator, bash all the glass, slit
The bucket seats. This completes the sacrifice.
Then look up, all of you. Ask Hopper
Pertinent questions. Ask Hopper how
Forever is maintained: is there a service package?
Do stars gather in space like hard cholesterol?
Does pain branch down left arms?
Hopper, you should ask, two centuries ago
Most of us would’ve been dead by forty—
Are we cosmic bastards? Hopper
Appears. He appears sitting
On the hydraulic lift, a doctor—the busy,
Stalwart kind with a swaying white smock
And stethoscope that he flips over his shoulder
Like a lightning rope. Gather around Hopper—who
Crosses his legs and raises an index finger
High in the air. He says
That sad is forever, then tells you all to drop
Your drawers and please lean over.
Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2009. All Rights Reserved.
With murderous history: a tire iron,
An old one from some forgotten
Esso Station, a four-pronged, black star
Gone sticky from the oily hands
Of hard-working grease monkeys.
You need an Ash Can mechanic’s bay
That Hopper should’ve painted
But with more people than usual; you need
A gang: teachers, cooks, carpenters,
Barbers, librarians, long into their sad
Careers, and all with tire irons and dreams
Of clobbering Bavarian Roadsters. You need
To gather and scheme under the bay door
As the Roadster rumbles in the driveway.
First, start Goose-stepping. March
Around and around the hydraulic lift, rusted
Half way up. Take in Hopper’s
Slanted light, the beams charging
You up. Now cut figure 8s over the slab.
Dream, giddy boys, dream that you
Can warm infinity down to a good-hard
Hand shake. Everybody shake hands.
Now, all at once, run into
The driveway, gang up on the Roadster.
Fling up the hood, yank the spark plug caps.
Roll the Roadster over, belly up. Pry off
The exhaust pipe, swing it into the bay.
Shatter the axles. Pop the tires, which sump
With the slow wheeze of a baby’s
Burp. Splay the spoked wheels.
Roll the Roadster back over, puncture
The fuel injector, smash the fuse box,
Drain the radiator, bash all the glass, slit
The bucket seats. This completes the sacrifice.
Then look up, all of you. Ask Hopper
Pertinent questions. Ask Hopper how
Forever is maintained: is there a service package?
Do stars gather in space like hard cholesterol?
Does pain branch down left arms?
Hopper, you should ask, two centuries ago
Most of us would’ve been dead by forty—
Are we cosmic bastards? Hopper
Appears. He appears sitting
On the hydraulic lift, a doctor—the busy,
Stalwart kind with a swaying white smock
And stethoscope that he flips over his shoulder
Like a lightning rope. Gather around Hopper—who
Crosses his legs and raises an index finger
High in the air. He says
That sad is forever, then tells you all to drop
Your drawers and please lean over.
Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2009. All Rights Reserved.