Burying The Needle In Massachusetts

twenty five, coked out, driving away from my life
with my skewed eyes stuck on the needle
buried at 120 on state road 140  — the snakepath
from the cape to the stubby hills north of Worcester

south of the basalt shadows of New Hampshire
that are full of whatever Lovecraft adored
i strand the Firebird on a leafmold bank
and get out

there’s a puritan darkness under these trees
that still hasn’t lifted
and the inbred imp in charge of hating the different
still sits on the bones of the old farm walls

once you get past the Kennedy mask
and the self-congratulation inside 128
where the Cabots and the Lodges used to play at benevolence
this state’s as redneck as any media slander against the South

in fact there’s a quote from 2 Jeremiah
hanging outside the house across from where I’ve landed
"…your own sword hath devoured your prophets,
like a destroying lion"

some lay ministry of warning
carved with a router into brown stained wood
just like all the other
bed and breakfast signs around here

this state looks pretty as hell
in October from inside a minivan
or even from inside a muscle car
at 120 miles an hour

so people come and gawk from buses
stay over to buy trinkets and maple sap
then go back home to sigh and say
"we love New England in the fall"

but now it’s high summer
and all those not-yet-red leaves
are barely rustling under the moonless sky
they shade God and his devil and the ancient blood in the soil

where the colonists beheaded algonquin children
and brown people still keep to themselves in fear
whenever a boy grows up looking like he wants to break away
or maybe wants to deny how good and right the kingdom is

when he gets to a certain age they start to whisper
he’s gonna end up bad
not gonna make it
often he falls from the prophecies

but sometimes he gets older
and can’t escape the feeling that he’s lived too long
goes looking for the sword in the trees
and keeps offering himself to the lion long after he should have settled down

tonight i’m your boy, simba
i’m your snowfaced speeding bullet
and i’m stumbling into your face full of misery
give me the sharp and set me free

not too far from here
is redemption rock
where the natives once gave a hostage back
and later got themselves killed for their trouble

who am i tonight?
hostage or hostage taker?
colonist or colonized?
prophecy or prophet?

i bleed at the very thought of me
and i bet Lovecraft is thinking
of changing his name from beyond the grave
just because i love him

so i’m on the side of the road
and the car’s idling rough
as I kneel in the gravel on the pavement’s fringe
and listen as hard as I can for the lion’s roar

if you bury a needle deep in these woods
the local ghosts will use it to sew your shroud
and you’ll join them in being
just another sword to wave at unbelievers

i don’t wanna wreck this car
but if there was any light out here tonight
i’d find a shard of glass in the sand
and maybe then i’d take the snakepath of least resistance

turning my head back toward where i started
reminds me that every vehicle has a steering wheel
and a way out might be in no place you ever imagined
and i’ve got a fast car

so i get back in and turn around
i thought i saw a sign somewhere back there
that said there is a highway going somewhere not here
somewhere not in massachusetts

bury that needle
run the pride of horror ravening back into their dens
with an rpm scream and the high beams on
as fast as i can toward bright lights big city anywhere but here

i’ll be up for a while yet
there’s always two directions
to any road
let’s see what this baby can do