It’s time to lighten the tone after all the serious tales of floating limbs and pus-filled houses. Sometimes it’s hard to say why a piece appeals to me. Is this a poem about stoners on a food run, or is it an evocation of the dissassociation and confusion of life itself?
You decide.
JOURNEY TO JACK-IN-THE-BOX
Bruce Golden
My head is afloat
As we go out the door,
My eyes are pried open
By a cold wind from the north.
We stumble outside
On our way to the blue bus
That is quietly sleeping,
Waiting for us.
I search for the handle
And then I see
Cannabis clouds
Drifting out from the room
As if following me.
“Hurry up!” I cry
“It’s after us!”
I duck under the dash
And he revs up the bus.
We zoom away to safety,
“That was close.”
I sigh and relax,
Remembering why,
And what had driven us
From our safe warm lair
Out into the night
And into the fresh air.
We were struck all at once
By a ravenous hunger,
An overwhelming desire
For something to munch on.
Like human sacrifices
We drove off through the night,
Helpless against the beasts
And the demons
Who feast upon fright.
The ones that lurk behind every tree & car
Waiting to pounce on befuddled brains.
(What’s happening to me?)
I try to maintain.
But we’re not moving anymore.
I turn to the driver
Who’s looking right past me
Out through my door.
“Where are we?” he asks.
And somehow I feel
That his question is misplaced,
For he has the wheel.
“I thought you were in control.”
I say as I stare out the window
Face to face with a telephone pole.
“We’re in an alley,” I say.
“What are we doing here?” He inquires.
Again I feel the question is all wrong,
But I’m feeling much higher.
“An elephant with wings
Picked us up and put us here.”
He seems to accept this,
(Not knowing I jest),
But isn’t sure what to do next.
“Shall we go?” I suggest.
“By all means,” he replies.
So we continue our quest
For tacos and milkshakes
And Jack-in-the-box French fries.
This poem would nicely conjure up some of my memories of the ’70s (if I could remember them)!