The Ghost Driver I'm the ghost driver from the agency a dull conveyance, indifferent, ordinary cruising for fares, mediums and squares the salt of the earth, shaken never stirred the long dark shadow of accounts receivable my generic uniform, benevolent corporate logo a chill down your collar, the whisper in your ear small bureaucratic comfort in times of uncertainty a burrowing bug into the collective unconsciousness sweet and low installation beneath salty human fold snug into complicit corners with the best of what's left the movers, the shakers, disposed corporate strongmen pre-approved platinum lions, future town square statuary lockstep schedule marching to clocks of impossible order blessed in a world of movement and impeccable acquisition where my name, pronounced correctly, is purred incantation where my name, spelled correctly, rises up from parchment and sanctuary is preferred seating for the inevitable collapse a suitable distance from every base instinct silently nurtured the big screen flower of consequence beginning to blossom its wire fingers, tiny microphones and monitors bending up at the precise moment the dramatized courtroom explodes eyewitness cameras trained on a new foregone conclusion each brutal nuance cataloged, then entered into evidence all neatly, deeply buried, shocking unseen photo spread celebrated double-head-removing pitchman eloquence purr procedural incantation, noisome flapping of wings the last bit of culture flaking, falling, finally swept away until there is no ransom demand, no teary denouement only fuming butts swimming circles in cloudy bar glass nostalgia for an evil with the courage of its conviction true divinity in a world where confusion is prophecy the comfort of ashes, a limousine idling at curbside and there but for the grace of, oh god, whatever initial here, sign here, initial here, sign here I'm the ghost driver from the agency ----

Home | Poetry