2PAC In Abdi's Rd 356 Night
Evil prepares itself
in the body,
chasing me
through the wolf hour’s 2PAC version
of Abdi’s compass courses,
out of cruise control, fury forced 'tween the plowbanks
over thaw-eaten March margins
along road 356;
a barely sensed groove through the March forests,
the bass beating through the dark,
the headlight beams almost dead in the mist;
a slender shadow medical-transported in the back seat,
long-legged, leaning, silent; the opposite
of old TOY advertising,
yet with the same cineastic breath
The years cannot go unanswered
when lone wolves arrive flock-flowering
in the first available body-shell
and the assertions stand with wet paper slips
in the municipal offices
The day after, infra-rumble rolls in the afterbirth
when the snow releases from the stable roof,
all horses and cats soon accounted for,
at a safe distance,
while the bumble-brahmins from another poem
murmurs evasively across the seasons
Answerlessnesses form a chain in the side-darknesses
between Notträsk, Skogså, Skatamark, Inbyn,
Åskogen, Nedre Flåsjön, Degerselet & Niemisel,
faces pale-eyed above blind-spoken unutterings
The surnames deny all knowledge,
meet up in higher court
before new evidence, 90s-rap-mouthy
Evil apples itself under the radar;
no one knows why the females behave
Simon-and-Mohamsson-like in the hopelessness
The alarms stand eye to eye
in gang conflicts of the endgames,
garish, Arvo Pärtish, fratres-gnawing
Security firms arrive with antidotes
In the waiting rooms they sit prepared
with their personal numbers;
the diagnoses randomly drawn
in the inner rooms,
now & immediately hooking arm
with a Couperin piece
Abdi lights his way
up through the birch lane of Station 45 at 03:15
on Thursday;
makes an elegant 180-degree turn, asks:
“Is this where you live?”
or: “Is that you there, brother?”
steps out and fixes something
in the trunk;
2PAC across the yard
as I switch on the porch light,
the basslines –
another world’s solar-plexus language –
rolling back down the birch-lined lane
from Noret’s hill of till,
the red tail-lights fading in the fog
on the way to Överkalix
with the almost micro-engraved lady
hovering far too lightly in the back
of Abdi’s cab, so airy,
moored to the seat with the seatbelt,
like sleeping-bagged astronauts
along the walls of the International Space Station
as I walk up the steps
and open a 2PAC on Spotify
and let it run
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-03-13 at 18:29
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