Faster car,
long distance to go,
nothing planned for
the far end of the road —
cheap motel, good hotel,
sleep in the back seat.
Alone, of course. Clouds
clogging hills ahead,
and the sun behind at dawn
after getting up and coffee
and good potatoes, orange
grease brown edges and
soaked in a little yolk. Then
more speedy lines dotting off
below the chassis as distance
rolls up in the meter, not caring much
about the fuel until necessary,
grab smokes and attitude from
backcountry station, onward,
Jesus talk on the radio reminder
of the crap I leave behind, the city,
the debates, the endless stare of
gladiator chumps and analysts,
glaring others and family, tears
upon hearing the engine roar up
into rejection, glory glory
on the manifold and the exhaust
trailing behind to say kiss me,
I’m not here, catch me
gone, stop. Again
the confusion of what sleep
ought to be. Again the clouds
and sunshine disgust, wanting to
enter the storm and test myself
a man. This is a poisoned land
and I’m ready to gorge myself
on the soil before I really punch it
and roll stock and barrel
into the ragged target
of the next day, the next day,
the next…
Dark Matter 