roger singer | more & black air


Drum beating, passionate, coal black,
a hell rising like lava hot
with burning brimstone, a will to live
through sins while pulling
at passing spirits.

Magnolia corsage pressed flat
replaces the aroma
of angels with sweat and devil lipstick
working fast on lips with slow words
under lights half dead with
yesterdays air.

Drums and feet and hands punish
the air and walls and front porch swings,
under falling stars while warm beer
runs the throats of voices calling
for more.


A black Olds. Chrome tips.
Dinosaur eyes. Red leather seats;
the chariot ride for kings.

A jazz of men merge through
the doors. Cigarettes pulse the black air.
The radio bebop’s and fingers tap;
white walls kiss the road.

Long nights and roads. Strange doors.
Diners flash neon. Meatloaf warms
the soul; the jukebox slips a tune.

Next town. New faces; they all look
alike. Collect calls and maybe next
month that Olds finds home.

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