the car

 

the blackened shell of a car ploughed ass up into a dune,
a snake shaking like a babies rattle under the drivers seat,  a scorpion
mailing itself, and a pinch of sand, in a torn envelope in the
glovebox.. which hangs open like the jawbone of an ass

windscreen long gone .. the wind wild here,
like the desert was a voiceless mad dog snapping at long hot
stretches of highway, boilt, long tongued and angry

 

little patches of sky blue left on the paintwork..

 

sand trickling in the windows, boarded by the  scrawny roots of shrubs, the car has begun its last journey into the earth, down through
the desert sand, possibly to automotive hell and beyond

 

there is a self-satisfied dryness to the air, bleached rubber..
the scent of royal red vinyl now faded pink, the slight
overbite of decay. Perhaps, one thinks, it might be the deer folded head between delicate legs in the trunk, a deer resting
comfortably between a tyre iron and jack and dreaming of hot desert
air, insects and sand, more sand and more sand..

 

the man looks suprisingly fresh, even shaved. musk aftershave, brylcream in his thinning hair. he stands at the side of the road with brow furrowed, painful confusion, staring at his hands, his fingernails.

we can see the prints of his wingtip shoes threading back to the car, they're slowly filling with sand. he holds his hands up to the sun where he can see the veins undulating like soft blue cotton he shuffles a little, a little be-bop

becomes aware that he's thirsty, his tongue is parched,

 

though he thinks, i cant remember a fucking thing a brand name beer floats behind his eyes like a bottle of pale golden piss and by god he remembers the taste of that runs his hands through his pockets finds a wad of notes in various currencies, yen, dollars, pesos a laminated business card imprinted with a serial number comb pocket size king james bible property of hotel pecos what the fuck is hotel pecos can't remember a goddam thing

 

tempretures falling from blistering to agonising must be afternoon, he figures, nothing for it except thumb a ride

praying for aircon too, he stands up and jerks a thumb in  a direction, maybe arizona, sure is hot enough

 

he starts walking hoping for a sweet evening wind, knows these deserts get killing cold and removes his jacket to use as a head cover, seersucker suit or something cheap a vacuum cleaner salesman? laughs at his own joke and wipes sweat from his eyes i feel like i havent walked in a year his calfs tight he enjoys the feeling fuck the heat and i dont remember my own name either, some urge drives him to thumb the little bible and he finds a name encircled in red ink peter fisher

fuck, i hope i'm rich he smiles again turns his narrow face and glances back at the car thats done gone deeper into the sand or hes hallucinating from the heat

 

-

 

as the day deepens into night, and the night begins shining with
stars, he's burying his hands in his sleeves
he is oblivious of the darkening petal blue of the heavens.
the cold wind rushing from the dunes, through his thin clothing,

his throat begins to burn from the cold air

as he walks through a stretch of dunes and the road turns to follow the sand and shrub, a crossroads becomes visible in the distance. he can see the flickering yellow glow of a fire that sets his pulse racing with thoughts of food and water, cigarettes and heat. he imagines himself sweating under a thick blanket his stomach swollen with cheese, beans and beer..

 

slouch hat, big rumpled suit on a big fucking body, hunches over the fire, poking at the coals with a stick. hey there peter stumbles over a rock and goes down on one knee tearing his pantsleg fuck. face looks up at him .. a black man,
angry, pauses his monlogue his mouth a miserable pursed line

hey, he stands up., hey, im lost out here.. crashed my car a way back..  you got a ride? a phone?

 sure, the accent is deep, melodius, southern.. he takes his hat off and runs one fat hand around the inside of the brim.. no.. no, phone.. no ride. no rabbit neither.. giggles, sounds like a little boy

mind if i share your fire?

no suh, free country, spect you want some food too, am i right?

yeah

aint got none, no water neither, giggle

look, i need to get to a doctor, im hurt bad, i'll pay

you look good, little pale maybe,

my memories shot, i dont even know who i am

careful pause, the fat man shrugs, ' you even remember your name?"

i think its peter fisher, he holds his hands out to the fire rubbing his fingers together i think im some kind of salesman

 

Aint nothing worth a goddam in this life, least of all a goddam salesman.

 

A salesman dont goddam sell, a salesman buys. He buys time from poor folks who cant afford to lose it cause thats all they have, time.

 

A salesman by goddam..