Adam Deutsch


The '72 MGB Meditates, Warming Up


A holy cow of so many lives: new carburetor, cap, rotor, plugs, wires, down pipe,       
         front exhaust, rear exhaust, mounting brackets;

on second transmission, clutch, bearing, passenger fender, radiator, starter, bonnet;

another round of floors, length of frame, motor mounts, welding solid only a little bit
         off, some fresh body paint but not enough clear-coat;

there is a kill switch;

been through 4 windscreens, 10 tires, 2 heads, a few fuel pumps with differing
          bracket assembly, 3 grills, 3rd slave clutch cylinder over three months, new bits
          of cooked wire harness;

still no visors, temperature control, wiper fluid, wiper motor, chrome strip on one
          fender, lamp rheostat adjustment capabilities, door seals, door lamps, dash
          lamp, boot lamp, rear license plate lamps, interior kit, carpet kit, tonneau cover,
          under-dash shield, speedometer cable, or cup holder;

got a compact disc player, Fiero seats with speakers in the headrest, JBL 6x9s
          mounted under the rear cockpit molding. electric clutch, octagon logo mud
          flaps that mysteriously are gone;

I've run rich, lean, hot, dirty, clean, smooth, so so, not bad, pretty good, good
          enough, let's go; 

it's cold out there; 
give me another minute;
for once, remember what your father said:
just another minute.




Exile Toward Sunrise


It's a good time to leave.

There might be a series of letters
chronicling the events,

a strain to share, to be belted out
at dusk from atop a pile of freight pallets
soaked and parched with ocean,
and sparked into open fire.

I hear of others who have drums
and guitars.  I hear no one need resort
to memory's dissonant chords.




Everywhere, Holes


She spits a bullet through the varnish and wood of the floor and it breaks the glass he's drinking from in the basement while shooting pool.  The bullet will keep going into the ground after passing through the foundation's layer of concrete and then further still.  All bullets keep going.  She is angry and spitting bullets and they'll keep going even when she is done being angry and then feeling better, after he crawls out from under the table where he takes cover.  These are how all the holes everywhere in the universe are made: some too small to see, others large enough to fit the woman and the man and the floor and all the anger and all the feeling better.