“Visions of House Trailers and Hookers” by Alan Catlin

Double wide labs on isolated
backwoods lots,  eight miles
from nowhere and falling fast.
Home security by inbred pit bulls,
fight tested and fully blooded,
only the strong survive The Ring,
tattooed on the chests of biker
dudes with retorts and antihistamines.
Everyone heeds no smoking signs
except when totally stoned.  Mistakes
become fireballs that can be seen for
miles around but no one sounds an alarm,
no one responds, what would be the point?
Proceeds from chem lab work not stashed
in fire proof lock boxes are buried in the yard
for rail thin hooker babe to unearth later on,
when things, literally, cool off; not one
tear shed, not one moment of remorse
felt, for Hell’s Angel reject partners in
crime reduced to so much dust and ash,
all the west coast tattoo artist’s best work
on their bodies just another bad memory
like yesterday’s off-the-street john,
even their rides useless, not suitable for scrap,
transformed as they are into abstract sculptures,
Dali’s, in melted chrome, spontaneously mounted
on hard, black rubber mound, not that she
gave two shits; it was all about what was in
the boxes, just as it always had been.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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