TWO by Tony Moffeit
the fugitive kind the rains came that night it was strange because it had been so dry the rains came like that night val xavier (snakeskin) came into that little mississippi town in tennesee williams' the fugitive kind (orpheus descending) the rains came that night that we descended on las vegas, new mexico, like snakeskin descending on that little southern town we descended like blues singers traveling south (turn return born return again) valentine xavier wore a snakeskin jacket and had a guitar given to him by leadbelly and the conjure doctor was always in the shadows some oil-stained scarecrow with a bag of mojos (return torn turn born return again) and you could hear the windchimes blowing in the rain that night it was strange because it had been so dry and we headed south to las vegas and santa fe the thunder spoke to us like gunfire as we drove mars-red into the fire of rain valentine xavier spoke of birds with transparent wings and she (the one who sought something wild) wanted him to make love to her in the graveyard wanted him to make love to her on cold stone (that's the kind of night it was) it had been dry but that night was sopping wet like cold stone love on a tombstone (she remembered him from his party days in new orleans) and the sights were raised to a new fire the stakes were raised to lightning (born been around down around) that's what it was like that night in las vegas it was like her slender fingers caressing his snakeskin jacket and talking to the old conjure man telling him that it was the skin of a wild thing and how she sought the only thing left that was wild night blues a new kind of truth got found down under red weather together your face on the backstreets your name on the backstreets your boots on the backstairs night was caught in the nerves night was caught under the skin night was caught in the blood of the race and there was a deep chaotic hunger for the lightning in the veins it was time to deal the whole deck the outlaw ace the renegade deuce the queen of spades in a game of double solitaire the only theatre we could find was a theatre of blood our own theatre of night jazz mexican food and tecate beer our eyes sped like bullets and we could feel the molten steel of the mill settling in our blood the neighborhood bars with their red lights ablaze neon neon and more neon the neon of billboards the neon of bar signs the neon of mirrors the neon of clocks the neon which gives us light and what could we borrow from the darkness what could we borrow from the blackness what could we borrow from the night but the mystery of a new identity the blood of the poet the blood of the sidewalk the blood of the moon the blood of the blues night of neon and diamonds and steel and railways and concrete night of brooding sky and traffic lights and circular highways miracle of it all to be unmasked in the fire dance to be thrown into abandon where ghosts play out their tunes and the wind blew strong as deep red wine and the blood flowed like a river and the night sang its song of neon and mexican food and train whistles and the night sang its song of prairies and mountains and steel mills and we sniffed the air like wolves for the scent of rain probing the night for a vision in the clock of numbers under mad stars and over the rooftops a solo was born and out of the fog a horn blew a beautiful madness and out of the coyote night a solo swirled endlessly and out of the storm a horn blew on and on and on
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