I miss the open highway
I’m besotted with quick getaways.
What other sensation can compare
to pulling G’s with wind-whipped hair?

When my foot’s on the throttle,
I feel unstoppable.
Faster, faster, no faster,
that’s the rush I’m after.

Where are we going?
There’s just no knowing,
and no matter where we roam,
the GPS will get us home.

One thing was guaranteed,
the speed limit would be exceeded.
I adored the wide open straightaways
and the feeling of a racing-day at Marseilles.

I remember in the Appalachian mountains
the plunging, snake-like, winding canyons
as the speedometer edged past ninety
how my escort, Charles, would glare at me.

I’d let off - a little - and laugh, I mean,
isn’t freedom the American dream?
To hear the growl of a V8 motor,
as it turns rural-roads into roller coasters.

I realized for the first time today that you’ll never see me flick my turn signal on from the inside of my car. Your music will never play from my speakers and you’ll never sit shotgun in the car I finally own. You’ll never place your hand on my thigh while I drive.
sometimes I see your ghost looking at me from my passenger seat, we both look at each other knowingly and nod our heads. Knowing what we want is the exact opposite of what we have.
You have her.
I have him.
And they sing to our souls, but we both can’t forget how I’d dance on your feet.

The revs of car engines
The footsteps of pedestrians
The laughter of children
The bark of guard dogs
The chirps of small birds

Even from in my bedroom I can hear the world I am familiar to
The world I call **home

A winged beast comes rolling forth,
‘Bout twice a night or thrice or more.
With blinking eyes from south to north,
It soars afore it’s mighty roar!

Befriended street lamps' static hum
Timed steps slashed through electric buzz
Fled from the dawn's grey stain
chased night with anxious breath
                                              erupting
Out­flanked and pinned down
                                         by the days

Strike up the band, roisin the bows.
Compose another tired piece.
I dread the melody
and cringe away
                              from the next movement
I'm only up for burned out wandering.

     Another balance overdue
Took out a loan for time well spent
     Roll out the carpets for the doomed
It's unforgiving turf where our steps are bent

I'll draw these lines
     of ghostly profile night
and coax the specters out
We'll roll on with the tides
     where we can dance macabre
until the core unwinds.

Defend the fort for sleeping ghosts
I'll man these walls until the dawn.
I'll fight these memories
beneath the banner of
                                  some others
Shell-shocked with gun arm
                                  growing sore

Outside, the sidewalks glow red-orange
I throw my shadow on the sparks.
Charred homes on cindered streets
I draw my bow
                           across shaking half notes
Chart out a map of burnt meanderings.

     Default on friendships I misplaced
I'm wrapped tight in familiar fear.
     But I'll warm to those familiar strains...
Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere, and Summer's here...

I'll cross the lines
     into the ghostly night
and wake the specters up
As fires kiss the night
     so I can sleep real sound
and let my core unwind.

Telephones.
Earphones.
Earplugs.

To drown out
Baby cries.
Engines exhaling.
Anxiety.

"Don't be afraid"
"You've done this before"
"He knows what he's doing"


The tired.
The disagreeable.
The impossibly experienced.

Tickets.
Bags.
Smile-free faces.


I'm ready.
You're ready.
Let's go already.

I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.

Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.