BEFORE THE ARK

i got another hundred pounds

of eight-inch roofing spikes

last monday night.

a counter

girl with tattooed thorns

and painted-over freckles

took my club card.

she said

what are you building and

i thought about the rain.

i said i liked the red

streaks in her hair.

in the front window

her reflection broke

a tooth against a star

shaped piece of

ribcage.

the rain shot her

freckles one cheek dangled

like a rag

she

dipped her head and tore.

i almost said

the day will

come

i told her take the change.

see you

round she said.

this friend i knew

had a long black truck

like a fall of water

running down black

roads.

the broken finish

let nothing through.

no metal glinted out

from any scrape.

just black

no weather ever dulled it.

holding on.

i counted

those scrapes twice and over

two years nothing changed.

twenty pennies in the ashtray

never spent.

no filters even.

just a toss of ash the pennies

covered.

you didn’t even smoke.

and that was strength

to never change.

you live

in strength i should have

always said.

so many trucks down

fort street all gone

clean in all the rain.

i still

check every hood for scars.

the bus was muddy yellow

coats and muddy tennis shoes

but my duffel bag strap kept my

neck straight.

another hundred

pounds sharp like broken

glass and galvanized.

another hundred pounds.

the only way to cure a bite

is cut the fever out but

i’ll be sure i’ll keep

a nail back.

soft place

in my temple where three

bone plates butt up

and

if we could see anything

we want before we die

i know

what day i’d see.

we pulled that empty

cabin down

behind maccomber way

blasted pantera

songs

through

a propane generator and

put every plank back

together.

you said a hundred

times it wouldn’t float and

sundown comes you’re saying

it won’t catch.

LONG TIME AGO

I NEVER KNEW MYSELF

the generator roars

the raft timbers bucking

under us

we’re laughing

and

the burning mast splits

down the middle brighter

than a house fire the knots

burst in the grain

and scream

I’M BECOMING MORE

and you hammer the split

mast with your half-bottle

of jd so hard the whole

raft jumps

like its own heatshimmer.

my thumb still has glass in it.

i’ve pencilled streets in

black

marked every car

crash.

treads aren’t built to

hold the road in

this.

bailing out

they’ll rush the lights

and never make the highway.

i marked it down.

some panic red

sedan wrung cross a lamppost

and hanging plastic dice say

seven in the back windshield

someone crouching half in

the door

fingernails

ripping muscle off the steering

column

it’s on my map beside the fire

escape. the ladder i can reach.

my roofing hammer’s hatchet end

could parry any hand.

i know

the swing i’ll make into

his skull.

and when i hit

the roof i’ll look

for you.

you’d never die

you’d never trust a road

just steeltoes.

i’ll finish soon

i’m hauling

parts up every night

car doors

planks and boat pontoons

i’ll look

for you i’ll finish building

soon

the day will come

and it’ll float i swear.

for raining blood

i’ve got my

charcoal filters. coghlan’s

tablets paracord

and prybar stainless steel

compass

binoculars

and spikes.

duct tape sextant jerky canvas

sails.

and trust the ones

who still can speak.

and goretex

fibre never letting water through

or teeth.

and superglue to hold

my blood inside. gasoline

to burn.

the planes

won’t come.

the planes won’t come but

i could use some flares.

the dead remember fire.

so do i.