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Carolyne Mas: Press

The Avenue Of Tears (1987) poem

When Carolyn's Not Singing

Dancing on glass,
crystal drops ignore
the sweeping motion
of rubber hands.

The calypso beat of boredom
stuttering down the interstate.

In some Jezebel's womb
volcanic images wait
to be carved and versed together.

This is a too familiar scene:
the same billboards, fuel stops,
coffee shops, and radar traps;
the bridges,
the graffiti scarred overpass
proclaiming another rock
n' roll resurrection,
and the stripped down Rambler
no one wants.

On a dull wheel
impatient fingers drum nervously--
the leitmotif
of a soul in transit.

Tiring eyes.
Vague shadow roadside. Mystic
reverie. Frail figure. Rain.

"Hop in!"
(The anxious sirens.
The burning squeals of rubber.)

"I just put in one of your tapes."
(Turn up the volume. Check out
the reverb of yesterday's magic.)

"I can't believe it's you."
(Thundering leads cracking
through dawn's skyline.)

"It's wicked out there."
(The wailing of off-key horns
rudely cutting in and out.)

Towards the city,
like a child uncovering from a dream,
the sun begins its crawl
through the clouds.

Who hears
the song that isn't sung?
Who reads
the poem that isn't written?

She pleads in stereo,
"No matter what I do...
it all comes back."

But old songs are only memories,
and Carolyn's not happy
when she's not singing.

At the storm's end,
near the cherished rainbow,
the city appears.

The sun lifts its smiling face
above the fading clouds.

In a downtown cafe
Orpheus waits to greet us
with new songs
and new poetry.
Gregg Weinlein - THE AVENUE OF TEARS (Kelly Colm Press, 1987)