boatride.

 Sweet aroma ignites with first strikes 
 hammering sharp 
 glittering metal 
 chiming sparks
 into the kettle 
 of beet stew of spites

 boiling coal, soot on skin, 
 kin, 
 speckled with bright dashes of sold gold in wrinkled tin

 for the settle is born 
 by the torn masses 
 rushing to heal 
 and not the few
 crushing their gusts -- parching, 
 murderous musts
 have thrown the steel barrel into motion of frothing commotion 

 in its roll 

 paving black crusts 
 the wheels pull rubber along 
 the train of untouchable gain 
 calling on the ball and chain with the potion of filthy lard and wheat

 playing feign child as skeet
 with fashioned begging at the feet
 not stronger than a handful of hay
 stepping forward on the paddle-wheel tray
 I see the road, says he

 just one more stair we'll make it be.
 
                                       
	     anton doria
 
	     November 98