I just keep getting caught up in the sexy world of freelance editing (and writing on my novel project, among other distractions), and I've been neglecting my blog duties. So, here is a long-winded, half-assed first draft of a poem about mobsters extrapolated from my adventures in Indiana. I'll post a good, or at least better than this, poem later on.
J. Lannan
“Indiana”
Headed east
We were two
Driving
Cornfield-flanked
Highways
Formerly three
In this business
It’s viscous
Wrong steps
Wrong streets
Wrong way
High roller
One day
The next
Dismembered
In the trunk
Stuffed inside
Louis V luggage
Absconding Chicago
Cost akin
To a casket
Bad breed
Bad blood
Bad luck
Engine light,
Oh fuck
Slowing down
Grinding halt
Gravel
Shoulder lines
Out to pasture
Drivers stop
Move along
We’re fine
Far from it
Far from safe
Far from stable
Next the cops
Are we able?
To hide the body
Fast and thorough
In the ditch?
To the field?
One will go
I will hold
Them here
Halfway done
Too slow
Too kind
Too late
Assistance
Ruminate
Upon this
Predicament
Hotel stay
Towed away
Grisly cargo
Blood stained
Carpet
Now what?
Cruel time
Cruel chance
Cruel fate
Will they find?
Now we wait
Crooked cop
Problem solver
Not a spot
They find
Revolver
Put away
Evidence
En route
No charge
No words
No merit
New freedom
Inherit
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