wheelhouse archive

Issue 6, Spring/Summer 2008


Sleeping Under the Truck Tonight I Am by M. Bartley Seigel

On fire this sun setting burning blood orange beyond black locust and cumulous rotoring ebon above and the margins at the fence row clicking and whirring to life and a little gasoline poured from a little rusted tin and a little house of matches built in a little pile of sand and lit and flames jumping to slither into the sky like a serpent engine lighting alabaster and shadow like the rising of a second lesser star and the smell thickening creosote and ozone and thunder and the void threatening rain and the rain coming big and brittle blown glass lenses illuminating a fine dust aperturing out to cover the earth and extinguish the flame and whet the dread lying tin typed on the tongue scrawled in bile back through the black tunnels of the body swirling dread down into the belly and belly down into the grass to hide from those billion prying eyes and listen in quaking fear as the keening of the vision falls among the dry leaves.