| SUPER-8 by Timothy B. Muren Super-8Your grave, Phil Silver, should be here, Philip’s Fill-Up—Gas and Gro. Hilarious, bro. filled up with bones like a new Christian, like a new Big-Wheel coasting to dirt, down steep on plastic, breaking apart against torque narrow concrete. Ghosts, remember, sleepingbetween Harmon’s liquor and University, staring up at dandelions growing along creek-edges to hang over us? Could you place in your memory stucco corners,the in-through-the-out-door back-lot stealth into horrible upstairs rooms of Super-8. Screwed to plank – Rodney Parham, Shoney’s breakfast abutment, Allsopp park soccer fields–No old photo sparks you, Philemon, only the heavy swing of coiled guitar cables doubled back between strap and body. Where are you?How do you feel, waiting for me up there? That was, le’ssee, who spotted the truckstop? The Gypsy camp under interstate, the barefoot kids in truck bed staringback through jangling. As a trucker curbed his rig. As a volunteer referee waited for us to cross before tossing the soccer ball back in play. A phone beeped; a phone rigged to hang from leather loops on some fat-ass’s belt. Hitch the trailer, Philip McGroin, let us set sail. Docker’s pockets bulging, the trailer listingleft across this great land—yours and mine—a few precarious corners. A few more. Phil; don’t let’s start. The Duchess of La Monarcha—with lines from Dorothy L. Sayers Murder Must AdvertiseHelen considered that she was showing The spontaneous kiss of an actress on the second hand of your lips stops the sun winding clocks in Santa Monica. She sits. Youstand. She talks of blonde hair dye and cheat day diets and how nothing means nothing.the exact number of vertebrae You lean closer; you open one eye to the sun— what happens? Like Isaac Newton, you think,maybe a kiss for the sake of something different—you are unusual in your usualness, perhaps. She breathes,that the occasion demanded. “Wait.” You croak, “Sorry.” You, standing up straight, straighteningtie, solar flares still arcing across retina. Weren’t you the girl from “Ripley”? asks Spider-man. Archetypal Dimensions of the Used-GoodWhere did Carrie get the heavy pea-coat she always wore? Went down to her knees. The last time I saw her in it— were we still married? A vape store clerk eyed her, suspicious, then turned to me, “You Navy?” I suddenlyfelt like an imposter. That night we hurried from the silver Honda toward the grade-school auditorium, late arriving for some niece or nephew’s recital. Just past cafeteria panes— where did he come from? Perhapsalcove shadows where double doors swing back through childhood, moving forward, looking behind, and anyway, I caught this kid square in the jaw with my shoulder. He dropped hard to concrete. Kneeling, I touched his blankface. Carrie held his head until his eyes refocused. Across campus, muted thumps of tubas and tom-toms bounced across asphalt with orange cigar-butt sparks. I had not been in many years—brick rotunda with central flag pole, guard rail whereburgeoning rednecks back-flipped to Bermuda grass as we waited for the second shift of yellow busses. RhetoricalWas I at the park, or have I just heard my father tell the story so many times I’ve invented the memory of the guy– dove off the wrong side of the dock, beyond red and white buoys slick with algae, strung together with ski ropes. Was the guy buzzing on smuggled-in beer? Not even halfway to the far levy, the lifeguard finally dragging him ashore to the gathering?I honestly don’t know, like I do not know if my city has a dominant symbol—I have to pull a rhetoric paper out of my ass for Friday’s class— Berlin’s architecture is awash with angels, so what is Little Rock awash with?And did my dad drape a towel around the swimmer’s shoulders and say, “Further than you thought, huh?”Why is it so hard for me to venture outside while there might be enough daylight to discover that unifying symbol, to escape the chants of cheerleaders across S street— Jesus, will they ever shut up? …Herewego Panthers Herewego… How long does it take?Last night I left my apartment at 1 a.m., walked a mile of Kavanaugh’s yellow backbone, slipped down and stared up at stars and dandelions grown up over the ditch’s edge to hang over me— why did I fall asleep there, only to have to crawl back out to the passing cars?Cynthia, why so many pictures of ourselves? But we were supposed to do something like that, right? Honeymooning, cruising— new footprints in sand, rock rakes dragged over– was that really us, daring each other to wade deeper. Shivering with feet in surf as cruise ships blocked our view of distant ocean? About the Author:  Tim Muren lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where he runs a writing center for students in various health related professions. Tim has an MA in rhetoric & writing and an MA in library science. He has published poems in Cortland Review, Prairie Schooner, Confrontation, and elsewhere. |
