"Steam-Driven Jaw" by Cal Morton, Jr.


 Rend the chains attaching broken dreams 
 left in small town fields demonstrating cool ones' glory. 
 We never thought those days would see their ends: 
 the era of school rules demanding quickly calculated stories. 
             Sporadic lights livened a nightly toilet paper excursion. 
             We acted nothing like you paint us 
             for the absorbed laser-date pom-poms and bulldogs. 
             Did they censure other close-calls rushing in our heads? 
 But if they looked very closely, 
 they would notice us powerless 
 hearkening to Parking Garage Kingdom's call 
 laden with blacktop and office spires. 
 And we don't care to know 
 just where our souls will go 
 -Mars, perhaps- 
 ascending to the stratosphere, 
 exhausted by youth abused. 
 In spontaneous doorways opening on unpaved roads, 
 belated friendship cards are awaited. 
 Home-front's turfed and siblings privileged give way 
 to yawned normals dodging the Beast Van squeals. 
              Black Widow queen and heavy metallic company - babe, we'd 
 make a good team. 
              No excuse need be made for pursuit - we know your script by 
 heart. 
             The luck of destiny's die cast shown in our instantly-grati 
 fying favor. 
             Pill-popping gang-banger dudes flip-off cart-popping pad- 
 pounding dudes. 
 But if they looked very closely, 
 they would notice the aspirations expressed 
 made perfect total sense, 
 produced by Fridays' idleness. 
 And we don't care to know 
 just where our souls will go 
 -Mars, perhaps- 
 ascending to the stratosphere, 
 exhausted by youth abused. 
             We never knew 
             red lights weren't for speeding through. 
             We never knew 
             the sound barrier wasn't for breaking through. 
             We never knew 
             we cherished the few 
             who had only fun in the fleeting now. 
 Bruder Yade ejected from deep digital blues: 
 Captured by the Phreaks, the Alternative, the Found; 
 Awestruck by the Sheep, the Addictives, the Sound; 
 Crusading inter-state after choreographed icons. 
             Our push-button humor adept at observing interest 
             holier than thy preps bowed before you. 
             Not enough poem ever could be wrote 
             to describe the night augmenting wired caffeine heights. 
 But if you looked very closely, 
 you would notice a blurred Tempo's bumper sticker 
 proclaiming 
 "This Space for Lease" 

to Cal       to Moongate