Author Topic: Spot the References  (Read 47 times)

Offline Christo

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Spot the References
« on: November 23, 2017, 02:29:34 AM »
Years ago, I was listening to "I Wish I Was A Girl" and was truck by the line, "They're gonna make a movie from the things that they find crawling round my brain."

I thought, I want to see that movie--a movie packed with all the images that Duritz so brilliantly layers in his lyrics--and since that movie doesn't exist, I ought to make it, but since I don't know how to make movies, I simply ought to write a prose poem.

So I did. Sort of. I never finished it. But the idea was to pack it to the brim with lyrical references and capture the same tone. Let me know how I did:

  Casting Shadows On A Winter Sky
A few miles outside a faithless desert town, the main tent is falling like a woman to her knees seeking forgiveness for her sin or about to commit one. The rubes have returned to their perfect blue middle American buildings; the roadies are running the banner down; and the performers are scattered from here. Not far from the circle of commotion, a railroad runs tangent like a national piano—each tie a key, each key a story. Maria’s laying crooked in between, one rail as a headrest, the other for her feet. She’s in a fever lightning dream, thinking the railroad is more like a giant’s ribs in an ocean of sand. Is she barely into Tuesday or out of it? Is that gravestone sun setting or rising? Somewhere in-between fading and shining.
The shallow days have been passing like dreams of ghosts, so Maria practices palindromes just to pass the time. When Jones, a sharpshooter sideshow, arrives to strike up a little conversation about the year, she’s wondering if geese see God.
            “You all right, darling?”
“Sex at noon taxes,” she says. “Ergo Ogre.”
            “Quit cutting up, Maria,” Jones says. “You almost got hurt when you were on. You want to get yourself killed, that’s your business, but it’s bad business, so don’t do it on our stage.”
            “Moving on…”
            Maria looks like death. and he can see that she’s been crying, but Jones isn’t overly concerned. He’s tired of the revolvers and stupid choices of youth. He’s got aching bones beneath his aging skin, and his pale blue eyes have been burned out by shooting coins in the sun. He doesn’t have time for the drama of youth—the meaningless quest for meaning.
            “Turn a new leaf over,” he tells her. “You got nothing to complain about.”
            She tells him that’s reason enough to complain.
            “Look,” he says. “Shake it off, show off some of those Spanish dances when next you’re on the wire, but don’t go doing nothing stupid.”
            She hates it when people call her a tightrope walker. She doesn’t walk a tightrope, she lights herself on fire and swims in the beams where the spotlights shine. She can dance between  rain like a ghost in a fog.
            Maria asks if Jones has seen Anna—another palindrome.
            He hasn’t. So, Mariah shifts to other word games. She’s says, “We have agreed, we have a greed, and—in a sense—innocence. Justice? Just us. Just to five? Justified.”
            Jones shakes his gray head. “Look at me,” he says. “Just another burned rider. You want to be just like me?”
            “Want?” Maria says. And suddenly she’s standing. “What do I want?” Suddenly she’s moving towards him. Jones takes a step back from her black hair and green eyes. A step back from her blue rain and her white skin.
            She says, “All I want is something fine.”
            And all of a sudden. she disappears.