THE DEMISE OF
THE TALKING DOME
Ladle the handle the speedway soups out -
fast and the cars, speed and the wheels. No
magic like the magic of crowds. Lightning
rings the edges of the fifteenth lap; five cars
dodging each other for maintaining hapazard
speed. Like a Pennsylvania coalfield in a
Hazard, Kentucky strike, the violence is all
in the resistance. And I've nothing more to say.
-
Standing by the fenceline where the coaches get
water, the girls are mixed with their sounds and
soulmates. Under the bannered bleachers, so much
goes on there should be a law. Instead, the huge
crowd, still fixated by movement and slumber,
drinks huge its drunken maw and lunges
forward, screaming 'more!'
-
Thirty years ago, this was hardwood forest and
slab-pine floor. I'd not know it from anything near
that now - plastic and metal and wood and steel.
All that shit that crumbles at will.
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