The Cul-De-Sac

The Cul-De-Sac

Mark Coleman

  On the Fourth of July, our fireworks show came from the heavens. We were too broke for so much as snakes, anyway.
  The wind blew back my tore up peacoat. Exposing blood stained jeans. It changed directions. Trying to knock me over like an adolescent cow tipper.
  They go off. You listen to them as you lie drunk in your room. You thought of walking down to the park. But you don't need to see them. You've seen them before. It's better to just hear the dogs reaction to them.
  Earlier it was just kids throwing poppers at each other. You thought it was funny to do it in theaters at that age. Unfortunately, you could never throw them hard enough that they'd explode against someone's head.
  They symbolize sex in the movies. You think of the sex you're not having. All the hand holding you're not doing beneath that display of patriotism.
  All the drunks in tanks with small windows and no glass feel abandoned and forgotten as the semi-elite nation fattens itself up on the Stars and Stripes with friends and family at beer cooler barbecues. You're a step away from suburbia but you haven't made it yet.
  The city is a broken shard you want to cut yourself with. A shattered reflection of the humanity you've never mustered the courage to regain.
  Godless this nation of man made meteor showers. Dreams forgotten. The Sandman an Indian Giver.
  The gun shoots peacock plumage that try as it might will never reach the stars. Duds those that are not gun powder flowers. They are impertinent enough to not give us the microcosms of color that we so desire.
  It sounds like the finale. You cross your hands over your chest. Your breathing is labored. You use sparklers to light your cigarette butts. Toast a hungover nation with vodka that could strip paint.
  It sounds like Iraq out there. A homeless vet with PTSD cowers on a bus bench wishing he could disappear. He doesn't. The war drags on and on.
  The people revolt. Their morality rewarded with bullet holes in their heads. The puddles of blood expand, and the nations fuck themselves in them.
  Hermaphroditic in self accolades. The essence pouring into their cunts from their cocks. An essence with the past stamped over its face.
  The mouths snarl as we beg for scraps. Threaten to snap and bite. The main target in the killing field zigzags. Hoping to throw them off.
  The scope that holds the murderous eye crosshairs him. A minute later, and his brains are on the asphalt.
  The brains to which a mind was knighted. A "Sir" of beliefs that the average man would not find unreasonable.
  Children of napalm run down the streets naked. The refuges lose their cubs, and cry against concrete pillars. The niggers are given syphilis. Transformed into sideshow attractions.
  Their noses fall off and their cocks turn into unruly blisters. Run down the legs of their pants. Rivers as brown as the Platte.
  MK-Ultra watches spiked johns scream and convulse. MK-Ultra erects towers. MK-Ultra drinks too much whiskey.
  The Stingray watches. The sky watches. You didn't want tan lines. You wanted to impress him, and ended up impressing them.
  They size you up, and eat your innards in the airport. Play tug of war with your large intestine. Trampoline on your udder sized breasts.
  They drag him out of their patrol car and slam his head against the wall. In the cell, they are unrelenting. This is the American way.
  Bleeding and apologizing as they strap him into the chair. Bleeding and apologizing as they spatter him with more threats that come out as spittle.
  A broken nose with a thumb driven into it. A beaten companion trying to fade away into its paws. Forgets its species and thinks its a hedgehog. The canine unit is ready.
  They round us up. The tanks run down the gardens with all their carefully selected perennials. Wives weep as they look down at their severed green thumbs.
  The tank men wail beneath the unrelenting tracks of wheel. Tiananmen Square is far from here. This is just a neighborhood street.
  That is just an arm that belonged to a mechanic. That is just a leg that belonged to a marathon runner. That is just a head that belonged to a philosopher. This is just a Cul-de-sac. You'll never escape.