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|Glaciers Created This Lake (standard:poetry, 638 words)|
|Author: Paddy65||Added: Dec 06 2003||Views/Reads: 1804/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A poem about urban areas, raverkids and lakes.|
Glaciers Created This Lake The lake sits resolute, undaunted by the boats, swimmers and garbage who nestle on its sturdy backside like obese men snoring on an old, trusty davenport and faces the resplendent architecture of Victorian lakeside property, unimpressed. It glances at the steel, cubist, high-rise urban dreams of the late democratic machine mayor with indifference, smugly taking solace in the fact that they one day will fall and be consumed and digested into its underbelly, seeking refuge with other vagrant sea life of its dark ocean floor, while its waves eternally crash into the beach. At dawn, it stares thoughtfully at the hordes of vinyl, metallic party kids of the Montrose rocks, fresh off an exhausting yet enlightening sojourn into electric slides, synthetic horse tranquillizer stupors and Frankie Bones in a remote, northwest Indiana warehouse living out their dream of a cultivated, chemical egalitaria, now seeking one final fix and an orange sunrise before sleeping for 48 hours straight. For some of the Montrose kids, their fix comes from the Old West where, at Jackson and Keeler, menthol-smoking merchants lurk on the sidewalk, stepping over supplies found at blood-donation centers and crocheting factories, dodging dazed and half-toothed tetrageniarians who resemble octogenarians. The merchants accost slow-moving cars and dart their eyes, looking for rollcage to illuminate the dark hopelessness of the city at any moment. Scarcely two digit in age patient, ready, waiting to ascend out of the rank and file to buy diamond rims, golden systems and other things not usually afforded to the Jackson and Keeler gulag. They solicit tickets out of the cracks and potholes of their neglected city streets, relying on their wits, common sense and guts to traverse the ladder, up and up towards the generalissimo. The Montrose kids drive into Jackson and Keeler, erect with excitement yet paralyzed by fear, conspicuous in their pallor and minivan. After all, this was the Old West, where there were six-shooter shootouts between bandits and sheriffs and sultry harlots roamed the street. They peaked out of their car window as if it was a movie screen whence after finishing their tubs of popcorn could drive home after the picture show. Indeed, they did not stay long enough to manifest any sociological postulates of these ghetto guinea pigs or to commiserate or take in the local color, for fear of trigger happy bandits and the suspicious eyes of sheriffs wondering what these Mayflower descendants were doing in such a place and bolted for the anonymity of the highway upon receiving their 5-hour pieces of mind and 24 straight hours of sleep. The highway was their passage back to the unreal reality of their peace and love eroticism of rocks, northwestern Indiana warehouses and back seats of Dodge Rams. The need to journey to Northwestern Indiana to engage in their rituals came about when the daughter of the son of the democratic machine mayor was caught by a sheriff participating in one. The son was now mayor with a machine of his own and he banned such rituals in his vast city proper. From his fortified palace, he assesses what lies in his aegis. The steel, concrete, the flesh. Partitioning it, creating it, destroying it. He looks upon his father's steel, cubist, high-rise urban dreams with pride beaming upon the phalanxes marching intently with attaché case at dream's feet. Jailing bandits, increasing margins, organizing parades, wiping brows managing the circuitry of the city, they hope to traverse the ladder, up and up towards the generalissimo. Meanwhile, their sons and daughters fresh from spending allowances at Jackson and Keeler, lie on the Montrose rocks in a love feast, for a couple hours thinking straight and dreaming and contenting themselves at the shores of the lake who looks on them with a sarcastic wink, perhaps knowing something they don't. Tweet
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