from Explosion Rocks Springfield

The Friday evening gas explosion in Springfield leveled a strip club next to a day care

I remember the breeze right before…Burs of—was it willow—slant-falling.The gray sidewalk, schist granules, scattering.A brown dumpster lid smushing its green plastic, sandwich meat.A rat made its debut, but for a moment.

I remember an awning string’s knotted tip soft-thudding a windowpane—tympani’s uneven beat.The rustle of stray trash—bass strings, almost rising—but never.And the chopper, the chopper—spittletatootling, spittletatootling—A proud boot landing on obedient asphalt.The stern, uncrying chrome.The flighty flames decorative gas tank.

I can’t forget the beryllium blue sunshades—orange hued at a glance.And the stars and bars, starched, pressed, bandana.Nation Idol GorgeBut for a momentThenBoom.

The Friday evening gas explosion in Springfield leveled a strip club next to a day care

I remember the plume right after…Orbs of—was it cinnamon—black-rising.Vapor gray whitening shingle powder rain.A dumpster lid sheered off a gravestone’s angel face.A hawk’s claws claimed the stump.

I remember two spouts of thin flame, blue, making an X—mind’s waking dream.The hissing of gurgling plastic, supplicant—sick—stomach’s inner eyeball.And the bathtub, the bathtub—sittin’ pretty—sittin’ pretty—The hysteric roof flopping on an unfazed floor.The wise, ever-wakeful steel beams.The cheery glass—beaming—everywhere.

I can’t forget that purple doorknob—horny at a glance.And the plump couch stuffing foam, blazing, angry.City’s Final ChorusBut for a momentThenShsh.

The Friday evening gas explosion in Springfield leveled a strip club next to a day care

I don’t remember the very moment…Flashes of—was I daydreaming—Biloxi Bound.The termite swarm at dusk, balling up, sprinkling.A skeeter swirling in its hotel pool—for the first time.A no-see-um bug popped out from nowhere—but for a moment—toromp.

I can’t say I recall Cleopatra’s hairpiece flying off in a speeding four-cylindervehicle—Empire of the Great Somewhere, but never.And the flying fish, the flying fish—hither-flopping, hither-flopping—The carefree palms, twerking, injured.The bald, unyielding sun, giddy.Tentative feet in knee high water, gripping.

Have I forgotten the name of that triple IPA—something like—Rondez The Moon à la Batshit.And the ample sized black pockadots—in my eyes, twerking, carefully.Empire of the Great SomewhereBut for a momentThenThen