Sometimes I awaken to
a hovering swarm of
stinging can’t be sures.
I have learned from experience
that on those days
it is best to avoid all reflection.
Mental or optical,
either one if given rope
will string you up,
tie you down to guilt
like a sinking ship
where the longer you
stay on board
the harder it is to get off.
I’d like to think
a long drive
would clear my mind.
A long drive driven at night.
I’d head out west toward
the widening sky and
reflective green mile markers,
400 to be exact.
They have seen
their fair share of
my failures.
Dallas - Ft Worth
To New Mexico,
I could drive it
eyes closed
and never miss
a turn.
But in years past
It wasn't so easy.
Back then I missed
a lot of turns
and messed up a lot of life.
From the guilt
of the sinking ship
to the heat of
midnight pavement,
at least the pavement
brought a tiny bit of pleasure,
still brings a tiny bit of pleasure.
For 30 years
I’ve gone this way
leaving ashes of me,
bits and pieces here and there
while white reflective numbers
count out the many milestones
I’d rather soon forget:
Tears of regret at mile markers
349, 288, 275, 263, 217, etc.
Swerved to miss a deer
at mile marker 321,
First on the scene of a 2am
accident. Quiet moaning,
mile marker 285,
met my guardian angel
on a cliff with no guardrail,
mile marker 250,
panic attack at 249,
219 in drifting snow,
invisible except for green paint
found on my bumper,
Stopped the car to *****
at 216, 201, 185, that’s all,
wait, one more time,
mile marker 59.
Attacked by giant frogs
at 213,
The wind whipped giants at
the gates of Fluvanna, 201,
saw Christ come forth
from a swirling fog
at 192, barefoot,
dragging a cross uphill,
I had seen him in the dark
at marker 195 at 4am,
so I stopped and waited
for the suns to rise over
an eastern hill,
and when they did
I went on.
The suicidal lure of
velvety pillowed
train tracks at 155,
unfortunately inaccessible
from the road,
occasionally they still call my name.
at 140 I threw away everything
that was true about love,
the repercussions of such
are still felt 3 decades later,
so be careful of the promises
you make, and stay away from
mile marker 140,
Satan lives there beneath a rock.
Smothering loneliness
at mile marker 125, 101, 94.
76 total emptiness.
Nothingness 45, 44, 43, 42, 41.
Amnesia from 40 to 1.
At the state line
there are no numbers
only a huge red and yellow sign
that says “Bienvenido!”
I breathe a sigh of relief
and roll up my window,
no more hovering swarms
past or present
at least for tonight,
at least on this side of the line.