{"id":1845,"date":"2012-10-22T16:23:12","date_gmt":"2012-10-22T16:23:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1845"},"modified":"2012-10-22T16:23:12","modified_gmt":"2012-10-22T16:23:12","slug":"brandon-k-brock-1012","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/brandon-k-brock-1012\/","title":{"rendered":"Brandon K. Brock, 10\/12"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><strong>stop sign dead pan:<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>The truth smelled like burning rubber.<br \/>\nShattered glass sparkling in the dew of the morning,<br \/>\nsun light breaking into prisms.<br \/>\nRed and oil, the crushing metal and fiberglass.<\/p>\n<p>Vinyl splinters, caked and hardened from heat.<br \/>\nGasoline soaking into grass, fire spreading;<br \/>\nthe dew too weak to prevent the attack.<br \/>\nSirens blaze, breaking the morning traffic.<\/p>\n<p>A stop sign bent, crooked from impact.<br \/>\nA slight heartbeat in the charred beef.<br \/>\nIt won\u2019t last long, so hurry, be quick.<br \/>\nSteaks on the grill, pick the cloth out your teeth.<br \/>\nGristle disperses into the flesh..<br \/>\nThe heart, a putter, a sputter of life.<br \/>\nTick, tock, beat, pump. Stop.<br \/>\nMuscles loosen, bowels exposed.<\/p>\n<p>Fire truck, ambulance, police too late.<br \/>\nThe fire creeps down the ditch,<br \/>\nfield mice and squirrels run for cover.<br \/>\nScreech of tires, screams and obscenities.<\/p>\n<p>The ambulance careens into the tangle.<br \/>\nMetal on metal on metal on glass.<br \/>\nBrake line leak, hospital making cuts.<br \/>\nMechanic position closed and residents are scared.<\/p>\n<p>Gravel into blood into grass into flames.<br \/>\nEMT dead, heads cracked open.<br \/>\nThe pink, soft matter of the brain is ripe.<br \/>\nA town will be in mourning tonight.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><em>Brandon K. Brock has been published in \u00a0Zygote In My Coffee, Yellow Mama, The Battered<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Suitcase, and others.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>stop sign dead pan: The truth smelled like burning rubber. Shattered glass sparkling in the dew of the morning, sun light breaking into prisms. Red and oil, the crushing metal and fiberglass. Vinyl splinters, caked and hardened from heat. Gasoline soaking into grass, fire spreading; the dew too weak to prevent the attack. Sirens blaze, [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1845","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v24.2 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Brandon K. 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