HEAD ON, OFF & STILL RUNNING



"You see, we are all sentenced to die." —Steve Clark

"Poor Cagney imitations," a friend calls them, this talking through teeth locked shut with pins to repair a broken jaw.

"Sub-candylar fracture" the doc says, glancing at the x-rays that glow with shadows lit up from behind, invisible blades

knifing through my skull. No chance, really. Shooting
round a corner in Glenwood Canyon, narrow two-lane

serpentine, the asphalt damp with snow. They'd been drinking. "Skunked," the fellow said, when I awoke to lights, a blur of

flashing red & blackness. Cars stopped. My windshield
shattered. A maze of flying cracks throbbing inside my head.

"Are you alright?"Who was this helpful stranger
asking questions? "All wrong," I told myself. A dream.

An accidental movie that suddenly I'd become the star of, extras dabbing at blood like makeup on my face. Sirens &

police. Later, at the county wrecking yard, when I saw
what remained of Betzi's limegreen Rabbit, fender

accordioned to dash, I almost burst out laughing, giddy
as a child fumbling for the cookie jar, caught red-handed,

but given a second chance. One never escapes death,
but after each fresh attempt, when, almost taken

swiftly away, then alert as razor blades, we mark
the kiss of life, so easily unnoticed amid the neon &

the noise -- that moment at which we greet each guest
or deny them, as they come round the corner, arms

outstretched, longing for our embrace. Even with
teeth clenched, jaws shut, tongue entrapped in bone,

I find I can talk. Words slip through all barriers.
Party once again to the amazement of speech, I touch earth

rebounding, free to sing through the mended hoop of these hard teeth that still, for a bit longer, bite down on the world.

art goodtimes / 15 january 2005
union of street poets
vincent st. john local / colorado plateau / aztlán
kuksu brigade (ret.) / san francisco