“THE PARADISE MACHINE”

by Luke Buchanan

Out on the tarmac 

the vans arrive 

one by one

In the interim, I fall asleep 

and dream about the fields 

the friends I'll have someday

and the toys 

and all the little animals 

They pile out, one by one 

their clothes are streaked with sweat and mustard stains 

spilling their beer on the highway, sending up coils of smoke

and one by one 

          they step into the paradise machine 

their skin burns like newspaper 

the vapor becomes wisps of soul 

sending up coils of smoke, 

offering cigarettes to God 

In the interim, I begin to stir 

And just before waking 

I saw all the friends I’d have someday 

laying still in the cold cathode light 

and cried into saint michaels shoulder 

icy fingers playing my face like a keyboard 

I died in ‘92 with the sun in my eyes, 

freshly mowed grass ripening the air 

And, slowly 

from the paradise machine 

came roots