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Steve Abee is the author of the ranting novel, The Bus: Cosmic Ejaculations of the Daily Mind in Transit (Phony Lid Books), and a collection of short stories and poems, King Planet (Incommunicado). He is a Los Angeles native writing in the tradition of Whitman and Miller, seeking the universal in the common grains of the day. 

Beck Hansen has called Abee "The Love Powered Bull Horn blasting down from the altitudes," and Lydia Lunch has remarked that his "... savage poetry demands the reader devour passage after passage, only to be left soul seared and simultaneously re-invigorated." Abee is a writer worth your while. He currently teaches Middle School English in Los Angeles and lives in Echo Park with his wife and two daughters.

After Driving All Night You Fall in Love with the Sunrise

Oh big violently orange ball headed-queen,
big orange thing spitting volcanoes just for fun,
fusing atomic El Dorado in infinity's cheshire teeth,
smiling sultry Los Alamos daffodils
from the desert to the sea,
down to the thin winged humming bird breath
of every twitching thing,
come through this dark in purple fingers, fading into blue lips,
through the mad tires, and restless engines,
through the cupless, legless, flowerless, the fallen,
through the pigeon-footed barefeet on the metropolitan
gas station isles,
come through these lover hipped
pages of a dream.

Come through these neuron-castled sparks,
dropping rose petals into the hush of this avenued mind,
slowly through the boulevards that lie between time:
Bougainvillea Geronimo 'till Arcadia Orange Kiss
then south to Paradise Zoo where Glorious Dirt Lot
turns into Blue Hope Doom.

Weave your prismed cathedral through
the flora of the refinery pipe lit night:
the Jezebel vines burning green always flames in Signal Hill,
Medusa snakes tethered to the freeway's whine of wheels.

Oh spill your cause along this heart,
our darkness needs some lark to sing
a crack into the dome of windless time;
the whispering scars along the night
are burning to be understood
like a river cut in muscle
running with the sweat
of invisible tongues.

Come fiery subrosa genius falling
cindered blossoms of wisteria ore
for we have been so alone with the galaxy
spinning dog-bellied nebula beneath our wheels,
sages beneath the infected miles of our noise.
You are all this world has ever meant,
moaning before our shit laid out its stink,
before our shadows wed the shells
and found the shore.

Oh yellow star, desire's orb, shaping the bones and sleep
of all that concrete knows, Come
Come on--your seconds flick away
their ash into the streets.
Your novas birth explosions
in a drop or rain.

© 2003 Steve Abee

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