I have a new book out: Carmine Fin, Golden Road. It's a collection of poems from 2014-2016. Enjoy!
The Mirror of Heaven
The Mirror of Heaven
Carmine Fin, Golden Road
advisory: contains profanity and a little drugs (not much)
I park my car. The road is silent. Behind the place, faint music and a doll impaled on a stick: the greeter. Then there are more dolls impaled on different sticks. Their blond hair is stiff with grime and juts straight from their plastic heads in permanent gale formation.
Mr. Hart is off his nut. Clearly. The country western twang intensifies as I look for him in the back yard; walking past the dolls on stakes. Gingerly stepping around various outdoor ornaments and garbage: elves, gnomes. Broken bicycles. A car in distress. The door opens.
“What do you want?”
“Can I come in?” He disappears into the trailer, leaving the back door swinging on its hinges. I go in. On the coffee table, the mirror. He is sitting in front of it, singing.
“And may all your Christmases be white…want some?”
“No thanks. I’m good.” I sit down, a flash of remembrance of college days past; a course signed up for but never attended. I am old now. It is too late.
“Huh. Just as well.” He bends over, fills up his nose and leans back; eyes closed.
“How are you?”
“Fine. I’m great.” He sits back and looks at me, exasperated; his eyes molten with hatred. “I’m gonna ask you again: what do you want? Huh?”
“Nothing I guess.”
“That’s good. Now fuck off.”
His eyes go in both directions. Deep voice and legs trembling.
where we are staying is a tenement, its windows boarded. Detritus and brick lintels glowing red in the sunlight. Thick jungle green in the vacant lot. There is no Hudson River, only scenic decay. Lois is drinking again. I don’t want to be here. A man steps out of the prayer circle and breaks the chain. Seawater drips from his ginger crewcut head and he says: enjoy the ride crooked smile. Smoker teeth. The room is on the ocean. the vacant lot with all its waving green.
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