river
wisconsin comes apart
a shaky slump of surfacing years
hello dead people of highway 31, then 35 along with mennonites and speed limits that seem like a prelude, music getting you ready for words.
turn that inside out, turn north into south, a story of sweaty skin sheen, a mess of starting over and words that you’ve said on the way out of doors behind which you have not been at your best.
golf courses with train tracks through them
the tracks with such a longing not to hurt anyone
suburban urban muses gone absent
there is more of this than that
miles and miles without any motives
dairylands
dells
boat landings
your senior year in high school
cemetery ready every fifty miles or so
marked by hard looking locals without their shirts on
historical markers
are you being dragged along this time or can you move this fast
if I’m here then my home must be empty
on straight-aways eyes close experimentally for a hundred yards at a time
then longer
the water has what you don’t own. something you weren’t born with. you steal some of it and hang it like an old tire from a tree, see how everything swings.
sometimes the only interest people hold is figuring out what they’re going to do different that you’re not going to like them for.
the road for stretches, for being head on jack, for okay hypnotisms, the pleasure of a singular company, mine.
at maiden rock an indian girl threw herself off a cliff. I see her walking along the highway with another woman, thumbs out. after passing them a shudder gust against the car, a wasted visit of wind.
a buzz of voices between here and san francisco, first separate, steps that I walk on. then they gather to impose themselves in the way there is always an hour becoming something next, or the way you suddenly turn down a highway to feel it swing out behind you as if connected by a giant rubber band stretched and blown, one long ride as an apology.
conscious then that there is a skeleton inside of me.
they let me out at five in the morning, not sure if they should. the magistrate smiled, so I let her. some things are plans, others are decisions.
don’t come back here, ever. it was said for him as well as me I think.
I was never here. and you’re never leaving.
soon after is a day or two, another motel room just getting light, then another storm striking out over another mountain in the distance. there are some moments worth having I thought and I wanted to go home.
water, in different places, in flow or still, has a distinctive sound. this one was stronger in the morning just as the heat came around.
as the sun was going in nevada, a black figure, a desert sun, what was it moving slower and faster, out there in front of me. and then bodies, how does everyone eventually become just another body.
a shaky slump of surfacing years
hello dead people of highway 31, then 35 along with mennonites and speed limits that seem like a prelude, music getting you ready for words.
turn that inside out, turn north into south, a story of sweaty skin sheen, a mess of starting over and words that you’ve said on the way out of doors behind which you have not been at your best.
golf courses with train tracks through them
the tracks with such a longing not to hurt anyone
suburban urban muses gone absent
there is more of this than that
miles and miles without any motives
dairylands
dells
boat landings
your senior year in high school
cemetery ready every fifty miles or so
marked by hard looking locals without their shirts on
historical markers
are you being dragged along this time or can you move this fast
if I’m here then my home must be empty
on straight-aways eyes close experimentally for a hundred yards at a time
then longer
the water has what you don’t own. something you weren’t born with. you steal some of it and hang it like an old tire from a tree, see how everything swings.
sometimes the only interest people hold is figuring out what they’re going to do different that you’re not going to like them for.
the road for stretches, for being head on jack, for okay hypnotisms, the pleasure of a singular company, mine.
at maiden rock an indian girl threw herself off a cliff. I see her walking along the highway with another woman, thumbs out. after passing them a shudder gust against the car, a wasted visit of wind.
a buzz of voices between here and san francisco, first separate, steps that I walk on. then they gather to impose themselves in the way there is always an hour becoming something next, or the way you suddenly turn down a highway to feel it swing out behind you as if connected by a giant rubber band stretched and blown, one long ride as an apology.
conscious then that there is a skeleton inside of me.
they let me out at five in the morning, not sure if they should. the magistrate smiled, so I let her. some things are plans, others are decisions.
don’t come back here, ever. it was said for him as well as me I think.
I was never here. and you’re never leaving.
soon after is a day or two, another motel room just getting light, then another storm striking out over another mountain in the distance. there are some moments worth having I thought and I wanted to go home.
water, in different places, in flow or still, has a distinctive sound. this one was stronger in the morning just as the heat came around.
as the sun was going in nevada, a black figure, a desert sun, what was it moving slower and faster, out there in front of me. and then bodies, how does everyone eventually become just another body.
posted by gradylove at 1:13 PM
2 Comments:
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When I turned 18 we went looking for a rave in Point Reyes. We never found the party but we knew we were close. Cars circled for hours, running out of gas in a town of 15 people with a cop population of 50. We avoided the meltdown at the closed Unocal 76 and instead, did just this:
on straight-aways eyes close experimentally for a hundred yards at a time
then longer
but at night, on acid. Now I'm turning 30 and I can't imagine a night of acid and rave hunting, but I can still close my eyes.
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