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Poem from:

Sculling On The Lethe by Paul Genega

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Pulaski Skyway

Genega, Paul

Low like the mean dream 
of Newark the sky must 
have seemed to its builders. 
Rickety now, unhinging 

you fear you’ll reach the end only 
thanks to magic – witch cauldrons
soldered (eye of newt intact)
to forge this highway hubris.

Fifty year old rock cackles 
on the radio, loud as
the chemical sunrise, car
lifting over fetid pools of sludge.

Below lies ballad country – 
swamps of sawed-up bodies
Saturday night specials
punks in concrete shoes – 

and you’re stuck with flat 
prose, a gas-good, yawn-blue 
compact – probable
logical, responsible and dull.

A skyway wants a gasser
wants a singer, wants a lover
wants a souped-up chrome finned 
speedster to ride the rising sky –

     last star, lost love
    wind fist, soft glove

steel grates drumming
cattails swooning shoop-shoop
trusses bleeding rust
like America’s tied veins. 

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