#highways
I came along to a road block on route 33
there was no traffic so I just rode my electric bike on the shoulder
I saw a lot of debris and blood on the road
the cops weren't paying attention, so I went closer
It appeared to be what was left of a man
or a bunch of ground meat with what appeared to be a whole eyeball
with an actual eyebrow
and a shoe
to me, it looked like a left eye
police came running at me and had their hands in their weapons yelling at me to get back
I panicked a little and about rode right through the meaty matter
I made it just a few meters away before I heard them closing in
I got on the ground
the one with a voice yelled at me
he said something about human remains
I started laughing so diabolically that the voice stopped
I'm thinking to myself...
"and I can't go around?"
I laughed continuously and uncontrollably for a good 10 minutes
I must have totally lost my mind this time
I hope so...
I hope so
when I got home later that day, someone told me that they found Kenny dead today
in the middle of route 33
I started snickering...
I broke out into a cackle
I laughed so hard, for so long, that it became very painful
I couldn't stop
my best friend had went through something dreadful
I still say that it didn't look like his eyeball and left eyebrow
then again
who am I to say what another man's eyeball and left brow would look like
on top of a pile of meat and blood..
and one shoe
Bahahaha
ouch
oh the agony!
this is serious
this is not sweet insanity
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 4:12 AM UTC
There is always
One final shove
From those old Angels
We've forgotten how to love.
Their cold fingers
No longer reach the depths
Where they used to linger.
One final blue night
We listen to the trains.
Finally committing to a goodbye
Because the stars
That drift through your eyes
Can no longer flutter the heart
Or evoke butterflies.
Those same gentle eyes
Will let you go
One last time.
Watching headlights
Melt the highway.
I turned away from you
And there is no second try.
Nobody will refer to us as two
After this goodbye.
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
Take me back to a different hotel every night and living out of a suitcase. Getting comfortable in our naked bodies around each other; comparing breast size and stretch marks—examining ourselves like the men who’ve carelessly fondled us before for our likes and dislikes. Sharing a bottle of lukewarm tequila in the world’s smallest bathtub and then I sing you to sleep. Highway cars buzzing past and there’s only one road to get lost on, but we manage it every single time. Your car becomes a dressing room at gas stations where people stare with disapproving glares and worry for the safety of their wallets; because we don’t belong here but we laugh—still drunk from the early morning hours and just trying to find the next check-in spot for the night. There never is a real destination but home always seems too close and we both hate that part. It doesn’t feel right when it ends or when I have to crawl back into my own bed without a time frame to be out by in the morning—before the housekeeping maid comes banging on our door,
yet again.
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 1:06 AM UTC
Who is he,
The man in the sweaty tee-shirt,
Standing in the center
While cars **** round
The roundabout?
He holds a digging tool,
Remains of weeds clinging.
He waves at a city parks truck
Rounding on its way
To the main building.
I know him.
We taught together once.
His doctorate in ministry:
Servant lives and how to lead them;
Mine in words and letters,
And how to read them.
I wonder as I drive away:
The tenuous lives we lead;
No predicting whether next year
I'll be learning with students
Or pulling weeds on a highway.
Vicissitudes of Life...
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 5:10 PM UTC
The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch
A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,—
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her neon colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,
cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;
her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers ... softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.
When night becomes too chill, she quickly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.
Published by The Lyric, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times, The Eclectic Muse, Freshet, Better Than Starbucks, Jar of Quotes and Verse Weekly
Keywords/Tags: City, rhinestone, garment, neon, colors, night, bright, lights, cars, highways, motorways, railroads, sparks, hills, river, barges, boats
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 4:21 AM UTC
Driving for miles
To get to where you are
Knees are aching
Hands are shaking
Fuel tank almost dry
Engines barely alive
Legs are tired
Tires wearing out
How long 'til I reach the end?
But..
I'm driving to where you are
and..
No matter how long or far
As long as the road ends
on the space beside you
I'll keep driving on
the highway towards you
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
I'd never have to understand that we were born into equal sized roadways-
another unwritten rule suspended in the air
amongst the somewhat unnecessary details we'd 'forgotten'
to mention over the past few years.
But that was okay right?
I mean you'd found your direction
and accelerated ahead of me;
thinking you'd see the world differently from there?
Sure, your perspective involved hues that I was blind to but
I'd found this gem within the shadows of all these cars
(Shh! Don't let them know you're catching up!
This highway was ruled by colours,
not words.)
redyellowgreenredyellowgreen
You just couldn't stay within your own lane-
oblivion muddled with reality
blurred my blindspot
so I advise you to swerve out of my way
unless you want to get hit
(accidentally on purpose.)
-
You'd always remark that I could handle the wheel,
ever so sweetly,
but this
is what you implied?
-
I knew it was all too much,
trying to balance everything
(Shh! My plate was too full,
each nutriment colliding with another-
the chocolate syrup painted ice cream
enveloped half my dish,
intruding the space against her wish.)
You always seemed to have the cleanest looking plate,
however you continuously allowed me to spill over
onto the rim of your
pristine porcelain, as if
you enjoyed
watching me overflow,
explode.
You never did anything about it,
never cleaned the dishes,
simply watching as various delicacies drew fantasies
right
in
front
of you.
Though those weren't even
close
to my fantasies.
You dream of candy floss nests and gumdrop buttons
whereas I dream of freshly cut watermelons and berries
(please do the dishes
or leave.)
// riding shotgun was the sweetest thing
you said we'd done
right before I floored the brake
and more than sugar
went flying out the window. //
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC
It's 2 a.m.
Time to go
Get on the road again
Shower, shave
and grab some joe
I am a workin' man
Each day
my routine
one...two...three
it is
the thing
that makes me me
A working man,
Hard workin' man
I do what must be done
I'm up each day
while it's still dark
And I'm not finished till the sun....
goes down
driving cross the land
I'm up at two
In bed by ten
I am a workin' man
I never
seem to
find the things
To love
What working
hard may bring
My truck
all loaded
Time to hit the road
the alarm
goes off
inside my head
I spend
most of
my life alone
it's me
my truck
and the road
it's 2 a.m.
it's time to go
I am a working ma
shower, shave
that cup of joe
workin' makes me who I am
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Why is it "American's hunger to move"?
Is it a lack of identity (i.e. being a mixed bag of ancestry such as Germanic, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon) and the search to find one?
Is it something in the land pounded into the earth by the feet of it's nomadic natives long ago?
Is it the near constant expansion since the days of Lewis, Clark, Pike, and Hudson?
Could it be the cyclic disillusionment inevitable in the culture and economic cores of the country?
Is there just too ********* much space?
It would be easy to blame President Eisenhower for the whole thing by giving people a means of traveling the whole country so conveniently in the first place.
But I don't think that is it.
Who am I to know though? I'm not even pretending to have an answer.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC