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D.B. Cox
Abandoment Series No.3 Scott Odom
rundown house
walking trash-littered sidewalks
of empty downtown streets
gazing through vacant
rain-streaked windows
nothing much to believe in
under this gray sky
of deserted cotton mill smokestacks
& overworked churches
a dying southern town
of forgotten working men—
some, considering
reckless measures
to pay one more
month’s rent
on a rundown house
with peeling paint
& rotting bones
a tiny, chambered
heart—
hardly beating
you can feel
the hard times
right down to the soles
of your shoes
as you seriously
try to wish yourself
into the faded painting
on the outside
of the defunct bus depot
a greyhound—
somewhere
on the road
sidewalks of canal street
the “big easy” lies
like a dark, bleeding animal—
an old man with no name
face washed away
by hurricane rains
dies without objection
over two bottles of water
& half-a-bag
of powdered donuts—
frazzled mind
running like a wild dog,
the young killer
stares down
through bewildered eyes
trying hard to work
his own angle of reference
dying remnants of order
struggle in the bloody water
then sink— eight feet
to the sidewalks
of canal street
c2005 D.B. Cox
Fall 2005
looking for a loophole
once i was beautiful
jesus hair falling behind—
burning blue like a storm
crazy for destination
now i borrow light
like the moon
overexposed like a bad photo
transistors shot—a bad radio
a formless phantom
composed of exhaustion
carved in the image
of isolation
dreaming of leaning
out over the river
from a ghostly railway bridge
prepared to sacrifice myself—to know
convinced the universe is a mistake
looking for an escape
a loophole—
that leads around god’s rules
the fall
i sense the acceleration
but don’t care
to stop the fall
to tired to stretch
far enough to bridge
the disconnect—
the slow, downward
drag of the wind
strangely comforting
back-floating—
red eyes locked
on the night sky
looking for confirmation
of something—
anything
to save me
from nothing—
everything
fully aware
of the smiling
motherfuckers who thrive
on my complacency
& applaud my stylish
deadly habits
spring 2005
sanctuary
night comes down
like a gate on a chain
sunset drains bloody
remains from gray clouds
thunder
rolls in the distance
like the falling
walls of jericho
a shadow
dressed in rain
moves along
a two-lane blacktop
searching both sides
of the road
for sanctuary
from the storm
overloaded dump-trucks
groan by, stoning
the stranger
& slinging gravel in the ditch
he feels the gaze
of cold-glass eyes
behind tilted
window shades
places where fear
accumulates
like dust
in dark corners
but there’s a light up ahead --
a country church
like a photo on a postcard
the people
out to greet him
& there stands
a holy man
bible in one hand,
& a rope in the other
--- db cox 2004
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