Junkyard King


Slip through hubcaps, rotting newspapers
and week-old, putrid milk cartons. Hand to
withered hand, grasping and climbing atop
rust mountains; spilling and quaking. A bag
of bolts for trade to the hook-nosed, stealy
son of a bitch that calls this place castle.
Worth their weight in iron, the frames of dusty
Buicks sit stacked like sandwich bread.
Breaking Old # 7 bottles through windshields
just because we can. A crown made of spoked
cadillac rims slides past our eyes and burnt
rubber tire smell thick through our nose. I am
the junkyard king. You wanna test the title? Then
meet me by the mound of washing machine
engines that my grandfather would have made
into depression-era lawnmowers. Sifting and slicing
through broken glass menageries, bottle cap
daydreams bursting at the seams. Our hands get
thick with oil and we wonder what a single match
would do to a place like this. Burn it to the ground.
Then dance through the ashes. This is our
chapel. Our temple of reconciliation. God can be talked
into anything if you’ve got the goods to barter with him.
And it just so happens, that we do.