Henry’s Elegy For A James Dean Hourglass

A stinking station wagon takes your life,
the chrome bumper reflecting asphalt,
the idiot Turnupspeed picking his nose,

the seats of the wagon covered in dust,
rearview mirror askew, like you,
a cloud caught in it.

Your Porsche Spyder eight legs,
abdomen blue, the spider web tarantula,
Cholame, iguana, rana, piranha,

East of Eden, Rebel Without A Life, Giant,
the Fifty Foot Woman weeping
like a petit little brunette.

The doors of the Spyder open invitingly,
let death in, your smile surrounded by it,
your future stuck between the sand grains

that make up the deserts of the world,
the sand grains get bigger and bigger
until you can not see around them,

pound them, sound them, hound them,
no hills, no valleys, no rivers,
just the endless sand of eternity.