By Francis Kleynjans
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Extra info for A l'Aube du Dernier Jour (Guitar Score)
Hot Damn! I find Laredo with the poet’s blues at the baseball park And tell him about my change in luck. We sleep under the bleachers in soggy sleeping bags Till the sweet sun rises over 3rd base. ” We check out downtown, the Subway Cafe We feast on our newly earned fortune Devouring hot roast beef sandwiches Upon the sunny balcony overlooking the World Jesus Convention. We decide to head back to Bossier City But the highway is a half-mile away. In front of us is a railroad bridge over the Red River Barely wide enough for one train.
S to the highway, headed east Another ride in a burned-out oil digger’s truck The driver said he was “sort of a geologist” He let us off in Henrietta As the night began to fall We camp in a field of Yellow Iron Caterpillars Swapping lies until sleep wrestles us under I dreamed that I was being born. I could feel the dampness and I could see translucence Like a flashlight shining through the blood in your hand Through the womb in watery red light When I woke before the dawn on Wednesday morn, The moon was blurring through the plastic tube tent Like my dream of a vision of birth The air was clean as wet stalks of weeds Dew was on the Caterpillar wheels A consonance of clarity sends my mind to reeling IRON RHINOS 51 We see the sun rise from a skid shovel cab.
Who abandoned this church? Why is the School painted brown? Texarkana is sad with welfare faces, stoic as rock Arteries clogged with tankers for Houston “Go Big Blue” scrawled in tempera on the telephone booth. The Indian woman looks forever out the bus window. The cold and rain is eating at our spirits, The New England Fall seems too far, too cold We flip a coin either North or South Louisiana wins, we’ll leave in the morning There are no answers for gypsies who Question Just questions, mysteries, mazes and riddles And no good reason for any destination, Other than living in the present We get a ride the next day with Twin Racist Sisters In a flatbed truck with tarnished baby moons We just barely make it to Fouke, Arkansas, Home of the famous Monster Burger Fouke is not part of this world, Rather it’s a Piss-Stop on the road to Dante’s vision of Hell 54 BONFIRE OF ROADMAPS Wild pickups racing quarter horses in the streets They talk of a Bigfoot who lives out back.