dimanche 14 novembre 2010

almost driving

i took an old highway tonight
through evergreen and scotch broom
one of those quaint coastal roads
that weave in and out of little
towns like mist and vernonia

I drove to escape my boredom
and though it never worked before
escape is a heavy metal in my blood
fueled by boxes of guilt
i piled inside the trunk
enough to last the winter
if i could keep myself driving

in florida the back roads 
smell of jasmine and oranges
in oregon it's douglas fir and rain
the sliver of moon didn't light the sky
but it was a sign nonetheless
until it rotated behind me
other signs were rusting in the rain
as i snaked my way through
horny mountains

i took my music player
from a soft denim sack
and played the songlist i made
the day before i left
bashung and bashung again
for i knew he would sing about the pain
that i dared not verbalize
swallowing two pills against its swell
they made me work
the gas pedal and the brake

i was driving toward a new life
a little hideaway
on the side of a cliff
where each day i could decide
whether to jump or to live
where a lamp might be lit
and words added to it
but my little drive was never
about writing poems

there would be no little house
no perfect moon
no ocean lookout
no final requests for
whale crossings or bouillabasse
only split second decisions

it was about turning stoically around
and finding my way home
unloading the guilt boxes (again)
turning on the television
and awaiting a conventional death

like all ghost dolls
i once knew how to drive
i was going places
until malady came and stole my brain
left me bored and in pain
but like a cruel joke
left the car in the driveway

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