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| Sonora Heat Wave | |
| By bwoz | ||||||||||||||||
| 04 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||
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It was suggested I post this as prose, derived from a poem titled "Sonora Wave" I posted two days ago. Since there is no category for "essay" or "prose" I put it here. This is for comparison -- whether this piece reads better as prose or as a poem. The Poem is attached here after the prose section so you won't have to navigate around if you want to compare. So. Is it poetry or is it prose? Sonora Heat Wave (prose) The high-noon Sonoran sky is a blast furnace, 110 degrees of dry heat. So hot the lizards can only survive in shade; if they move too slowly they blister and die. I step into this gloom of brightness that bakes the old adobe walls like an ancient curse. The sun hound scorches; turns my shoes into oven bricks. I stumble into three rumpled old men sitting outside the dog track. They came in one blighted day some 40 years ago on the boom-town Copper Express; they melted here, then just as now. They laugh at my suffering as I shade my face and cross the road. The shadows sweat, then swallow my eyes while terracotta steps splash heat when I walk by. “Yo, hombre, you got feefty?” One of them asks. I think to myself ‘Goddamn dogs won’t run, can’t even die good in this shit.’ “Yeah man, I put fifty down on a silver Greyhound named Westbound headed for the coast ‘cause its basic survival now.” I tell him. I drag my brick feet into a saloon to wait for my midnight escape. The beer is cold but there is no forgiveness here. Finally, darkness arrives like anger, the temperature still at 105. Ghostly shapes stir and gather in the aching hume. Hatted silhouettes of machismo trickle from dark doorways. They circle and sneer, nod at each other leaning into their own shadows like herons perched on the adobe walls; like the grey herons they call blue. They become a mirage in the moonlight, just a glassy promise, smoky dull; a sidewalk peep-show of phantom pleasure that will all be dust by morning. I float away from the bar on beer fumes and hot cement with a ticket in my shirt pocket, past the dog track and a surly prostitute teasing three old men. Those melted old men. They bet the 3 and 5 daily double and coaxed another lizard from the grey heron’s mouth. Sonora Wave (Poem) The high-noon Sonoran sky is a blast furnace, 110 degrees of dry heat. So hot the lizards can only survive in shade, or they blister and die. I step into this gloom of brightness that bakes the old adobe walls like an ancient curse. The sun hound scorches; turns my shoes into oven bricks. I stumble into some rumpled old men sitting outside the dog track. They came in one blighted day some 40 years ago on the boom-town Copper Express they melted here, then just as now They laugh at my suffering as I shade my face and cross the road. The shadows sweat, then swallow my eyes while terracotta steps splash heat when I walk by. Yo, hombre, you got feefty? I think to myself Goddamn dogs won’t run, can’t even die good in this shit. Yeah man, I put fifty down on a silver Greyhound named Westbound headed for the coast ‘cause its basic survival now I drag my brick feet into a saloon to wait for my midnight escape. The beer is cold but there is no forgiveness here. Finally, darkness arrives like anger, the temperature still at 105. Ghostly shapes stir and gather in the aching hume Hatted silhouettes of machismo trickle from dark doorways. They circle and sneer, nod at each other, leaning into their adobe shadows like perched herons; like the grey herons they call blue. They become a mirage in the moonlight just a glassy promise, smoky dull a sidewalk peep-show of phantom pleasure It will all be dust by morning I float away from the bar on beer fumes and hot cement with a ticket in my shirt pocket, past the dog track and a surly prostitute teasing three old men. Those melted old men. They bet the 3 and 5 daily double and coaxed another lizard from the grey heron’s mouth.
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