SHOW'S OVER, OREGON, TURN OUT THE LIGHTS ON JOE
They watch the news in nightly electric radiated dreamscapes,
the novel invention of living rooms & cast iron testicles
dislodging the parentheses of universe soup.
Downtown clowns drowning sounds from elevators.
Will there come a knock
at the door? A voice one pitch
higher than normal, the snarling
of a dog.
Crouching in dormitory
smoke-eyed bleary oblivion,
will there come man with a gun
and hurl suitcase out the window,
do they not account for
shit thrown out the window?
Been thrown out the window before,
I imagine, desperate in Dallas
with tattooed face and
thin wisp of arms cuffed in the cruiser,
gaping eyes & skinny vagina.
Lonely Texas casualty
wildly glowing unrequited
and narcotic hazel.
Hours and showers
and cocaine roar.
Powder face more a disposition
than sentiment, disposing sentience
more a task than idle virtue.
Reality: vested policemen in dormitory hall
with sullen and leering dispositions,
didn't have me pegged
at least I hope.
Never known time to be so still
or heart to race so fast.
Shouts and barking,
Gerald So reads "Show's Over, Oregon, Turn Out the Lights on Joe":
Joe confesses nothing.
JOSEPH JAMES CAWEIN is a 21 year old college student. Supplemental information strikes him as frivolous.