Mechanicatechists

By Joseph Hesch

Here in the holy grotto of mechanical arts,
miniature suns hang from up-hinged hoods
and dingy wheelwells.
The din of clanging tools fades beneath
the stutter of the pneumatic wrench.
The old mage’s hands wear
an impasto of dirt and motor oil,
while a crescent of indigo and crimson
sits beneath his thumbnail,
a Purple Heart earned during
a battle between a rusted brake
and a slippery screwdriver.

The gloved young priests
bear permanent marks, as well,
though these are inked imaginings
on their arms and bodies, not
the forever stampings of battles lost
between flesh and steel.
They divine the fortunes of man
in the oil-soaked entrails of his beast,
speaking in the cant of youth,
even to the tool-less pilgrims
that have come for healing:
“Front binders are shot, Dude.
New rotors and pads’ll run ya
four-fitty, five ‘n a quarter.”

So it is written; so shall it be.

© 2012 Joseph Hesch

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4 thoughts on “Mechanicatechists

  1. Ah, the local chapel of “divine intervention!” Only you could take something as mundane as a trip to the mechanic’s, and work your word magic to turn it into such a fascinating read.
    “So it is written: so it shall be.”
    Well done.

  2. A slippery screwdriver, I think I drank some of those one night here on 6th Street. 🙂

    “Impasto” is that some kind of Italian noodle only mechanics are hip to? 🙂

    I love how such a cerebral guy as you can delight us with nitty-gritty car poetry too.

    And I’ve been so immersed songwriting land of late I’ve not made any new sidebar buttons, but as I said, YOURS will appear next. Thanks for bearing with me.

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