Crazy? What's crazy?
Maybe I'm a bit stubborn
from feeling so used
I might go out by myself
and never ask another
I suppose that might sound
crazy, I mean,
I speak my mind,
I expose the truth...
I guess that might
sound a little bit crazy
Especially when
the masses can't even see
The crystal clear vision
of a rearview mirror
staring at them
through the windshield.
Which way are we going?

It's been a while,
Don't you think ?
And
I haven't learned a thing
No way I jump
I know I'll sink.
And still
You'd have no clue.
How much
You twist me up
Melt me...
Bind me like glue.
It's silly
Don't you think ?
When I'm driving home
From a good time,
Tell me why
I think of you.

Driving down the freeway
underneath the dark night sky.

Thinking about it all.
Tears falling from my eye.

Starring out the window
at the reflection in the mirror.

Remembering the times
when it all seemed so much
clearer.

somewhere;

close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.

roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.

a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.

the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.

headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.

of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?

here
relative to home, not very close.

The water on the ground
Is no longer fake,
As I take a look in the rearview.

Huh, I’m crying.

And it’s in this moment
I take a second
To accept the fact

                  I miss you.


Oh how I wish
I’d known,
Before driving
These backroads   alone
My heart and soul
Are objects of old,
And bigger

                          Then they appear.

That this pathway to heaven
Gripped by desert horizon
Was just escape for a women
Who cannot function
And is blinded
                          By fear.

Well, that’s life.

I tried.
Goodbye.
I ride.
Until the end of time,

                          My dear.

I’d give you the hour I had. Slipped down the front steps, into to my boots, “Mom, I’m going to James’ to catch up. Back in an hour,”
“Elvridge?”
“yeah”
“Oh, is that who’s here? Awe tell me how he is,” my mom smiled with warm sandbox concern as she waved out the window. You’ve always been welcome here.
“I think he is doing better he got a new job he likes, going to go hear more,”

We started like we always have, along the awkward edge of fragility, like I might just jump out before you get going too fast. You’re the tooth I have tied against my doorknob; it’ll take escaping the threads of my body to ever find the nerve to kick you clean out. I commit when the road gets quick underneath us. I have always played reluctant and barely convinced to come see you. One layer you thumb against your index; you make me feel like a rookie when I am the older one who knows better, who’s watching her body slouch into a fiddling girl.
We split 2 “****** joints,” no filter - a term you taught me just then, tapping it against my nose before lighting it between your lips. You decided on the cell phone lot along the airstrip; continued your scant refusal to answer my questions, ones about the text from the night before. Insisted the ****** ladies had swept you straight off your feet - no need to go back when you’re feeling so much better.  
Oh good - I will tell my mom that you are well and hear from you late later this week with your prayers to the subtle god of short-term solutions.

No planes took off but we hoped with our eyes pressed against a clear sky.
“Could be Oregon.”
“Yeah, it could be.”
“I’d pack the car tomorrow, you know that.”
“I’d be nice.” I breathed to close this prayer between us. I will meet you there when all else fails. You’d take me there tonight. I hate you so ******* much but I trek out every time you call to look at Oregon through your windshield because it would be nice. We’d stand a chance in Oregon. We could love each other well.
You wrap your hand around my thigh.
“Sorry, had to,” you smirk before retracting it quickly.
“You have a crooked idea of what’s necessary,” it’s gotten us into that backseat only twice over five years but, I have always let your hands test my resolve.
“You’re right. How’s the boyfriend?” you tease as you throw your arm over my seat and the car into reverse.
“Oh, please he’s not my boyfriend,” I dismiss you quickly and watch the scar sweat down the corner of your wry smile, warmly lit by fire between your teeth.
“I think it’s funny. You’ll call me when it’s over so what’s the difference.” I hate that you’re right.

It was a smooth red Mazda roll from the cell phone lot to the roads you came here for, the hidden highway stretches behind the airport. The blood left my chest as your knuckles went white against the transmission.
down shift
down shift
down shift
the darling terror of your acceleration swelled to breath in my lungs. You smile like you remember; I smile as if I don’t. The way the floor caved to meet me the day I got the call. The way you cried into the mirror when you finally woke up to the tempered glass scar that carves across your face. I’ve been the fool in you passenger seat more than I’ll ever admit. My mom would never let me leave the door if I told her the truth, that I only trust you driving this fast with me there. Flying around these wooded bends, I know if I ever want to keep you, I have to be your something to lose.
Don’t worry mom he wouldn’t **** us both.

The first time we did this was the first time after. I thought we were going to park and talk but you wept as we climbed to 200 on the highway. I shook and begged you to slow down.
You wished it had worked. You wished it had worked. I knew the EMT, she told me you wished she had not worked.

I don’t know what is different now but as the night whipped past the empty roads, I wanted to reach out my hands and touch time through the December sunroof, to kiss the creeping truth of scarcity like she was coming home. We are moving so fast through what we have left and oh my god I feel like I can breathe again. I so am afraid for the unsuspecting, praying that any late-night jogger or crossing deer is miles safe from our never stopping in time.
You are not. You love me like a religion, with enough faith to steer straight and trust the road ahead like you know that it will clear it if it’s meant to. But I know you. I know your nightmare isn’t the oak tree you met on this road months ago.
You won’t **** your wrist this time
but if the tires slipped on the melting snow
and we both fly to Oregon through your windshield,
you pray you’re not the only one this time,
begging not to come home.

Rattle the cassette
with the biro etched “Car Mix”
grab the keys from mum’s bag
“Fill up what you use!”
“…Ok, can I have a fiver then?”
scuff to the car in unsuitable boots
slump in, adjust mirror, checking stupid fringe
which then existed
snap in the tape so the first bars
of G-Funk, grunge or B*Witched pulse
then it’s off to pick up
shotgun