When he went through the windshield, amid the shrill fracture of glass and above the curling guardrail, he did not think of Junebug or his mother or his boyhood summers at Lake Tenkiller. He thought only of deep-grooved ritual: get in, turn the key, press power on the radio, turn the air to 1, and buckle in.

He saw the guardrail. He saw the guardrail and knew, or half-knew, what would come next.

He headed straight for it, going sixty, sixty-five.

He used to play a game to break up the monotony of interstate travel, back when he worked the night shift at Wolverine. He'd close his eyes for as long as he could while driving. He began with five seconds then ten, no peeking, eventually making it an entire minute, speeding down I-44 alongside the eighteen-wheelers and the farming crowd. It was around 5 a.m., sure, but a minute still.

Before he cut the ignition he turned off the air and the radio, always. His dad told him it made it easier on a vehicle when you started it. A mechanic later told him that wasn't true. Not even remotely. He still did it.

He saw the guardrail and thought of it in the same realm as driving blind, a game of chicken ending inevitably in forfeit although victory and loss weren't clearly defined, only the edge tangible, the heart rate going mad, the blood rushing through the tributaries of the body.

He thought brake. He even said it out loud, alone in the car. The air was on 1. The radio was on NPR, some story about "hacking" your closet. He saw the guardrail. His foot pressed down on the gas harder. He wondered what it'd be like to fly over the edge then he was flying over the edge.

He glided above the first snag of rocks, small cuts on his cheeks burning against gravity's drag. The car did not. While the engine continued to hum, pieces fell around him, shards of glass and jagged bits of the valance and bumper. The radio played Muzak. They were between segments.

He turned the air to 1. He hit the power button on the radio. Why didn't he buckle the seatbelt?

His screams came out in long monotonal bursts, automatic and not quite human. Turn the ignition, power button, turn **** to 1, click.

He didn't think about what he'd hit first, tree or rock. There was still some fifty feet to fall before that decision was made for him. He didn't wonder if the car would land on top of him. He got in. He turned the key. Radio on. Air to 1. Then he clicked, didn't he?

Marie didn't call tonight. Marie. Her shape started to form in his mind, waiting for him on the couch in that stupid shawl, her face lit, a bright blue, by the glow of the television screen.

A tree, he hit a tree first.

The rough bark tore at his face, chest and arm. He could feel the tree bend then repel him. He took a branch to the rib and continued his fall to the stony earth. He hit the ground and kept falling.

The phone rang in Red Lodge.  The sun had already faded behind the mountain, and the street outside where the bike was parked was covered in darkness. Only the glow from the quarter moon allowed the bike to be visible from my vantage point inside the Pollard’s Lobby.  The hotel manager told me I had a call coming in and it was from Cooke City.  By the time I got to the phone at the front desk, they had hung up. All that the manager had heard from the caller was that I was needed in Cooke City just before the line had gone dead.  Because of the weather, my cell phone reception was spotty, and the hotel’s phone had no caller I.D.

Cooke City was 69 miles to the West, a little more than an hour’s drive under normal circumstances.  The problem is that you can never apply the word normal to crossing Beartooth Pass even under the best of conditions, and certainly not this early in the season.  I wondered about the call and the caller, and what was summoning me to the other side.  There was 11,000 feet of mountain in between the towns of Red Lodge and Cooke City, and with a low front moving in from the West, all signals from the mountain were to stay put.

Beartooth Pass is the highest and most formidable mountain crossing in the lower 48 States.  It is a series of high switchback turns that crisscross the Montana and Wyoming borders, rising to an elevation of 10,947 ft.  If distance can normally be measured in time, this is one of nature’s timeless events.  This road is its own lord and master. It allows you across only with permission and demands your total respect as you travel its jagged heights either East or West.  Snow and rockslides are just two of the deadly hazards here, with the road itself trumping both of these dangers when traveled at night.

The Beartooth Highway, as gorgeous as it is during most summer days, is particularly treacherous in the dark.  Many times, and without warning, it will be totally covered in fog. Even worse, during the late spring and early fall, there is ice, and often black ice when you rise above 7000 feet. Black ice is hard enough to see during the daytime, but impossible to see at night and especially so when the mountain is covered in fog. At night, this road has gremlins and monsters hiding in its corners and along its periphery, ready to swallow you up with the first mistake or indiscretion that a momentary lack of attention can cause.

The word impossible is part of this mountains DNA.

: Impossible- Like the dreams I had been recently having.

: Impossible- Like all of the things I still had not done.

: Impossible- As the excuses ran like an electric current
                         through all that I hated.

: Impossible- Only in the failure of that yet to be conquered.

: Impossible- For only as long as I kept repeating the word.

Now it was my time to make a call.  I dialed the cell number of my friend Mitch who worked for the U.S. Forest Service in Cooke City. Mitch told me what I already knew and feared. There was snow on both sides of the road from Red Lodge to Cooke City, and with the dropping temperatures probably ice, and possibly black ice, at elevations above 7500 feet.

Mitch lived in Red Lodge and had just traveled the road two hours earlier on his way home.  He said there had been sporadic icy conditions on the Red Lodge side of the mountain, causing his Jeep Wagoneer to lose traction and his tires to spin when applying his brakes in the sharpest turns.  The sharpest corners were the most dangerous parts of this road, both going up and even more so when coming down. Mitch warned me against going at night and said: “Be sure to call me back if you decide to leave.”

The Red Lodge side of the mountain would be where I would begin my trip if I decided to go, with no telling how bad the Cooke City descent would be on the Western side.  This is assuming I was even able to make it over the top, before then starting the long downward spiral into Cooke City Montana.

The phone rang again!  This time I was able to get to the front desk before the caller got away.  In just ten seconds I was left with the words ringing in my ears — “Everything is ready, and we implore you to come, please come to Cooke City, and please come tonight.”  

Now, it was my time to choose.  I had to decide between staying where it was safe and dry, or answering the call and making the journey through the dark to where fate was now crying out to me. I put the phone down and walked out the front doors of the Pollard Hotel and into the dim moonlight that was shining through the clouds and onto the street.  The ‘Venture’ sat in its soft glow, parked horizontally to the sidewalk, with its back tire pressed up against the curb and its front tire pointed due North.  The bike was not showing any bias either East or West and was not going to help with this decision.  If I decided to go, this choice would have to be all mine.

The original plan had been to stay in Red Lodge for two more days, awaiting friends who still had not arrived from a trip to Mount Rushmore. Then together we had planned a short stopover in Cody, which was not more than ninety-minutes away. From there we planned to take the ‘Chief Joseph Highway’ to Cooke City, which is both a beautiful and safe way around Beartooth Pass. Safety drifted out of my consciousness like a distant mistress, and I looked North and heard the mountain call out to me again.

As much as I wanted to see my friends, the voice that was calling from inside was getting harder and harder to ignore.  With the second phone call, my time in Red Lodge grew short in its importance, and I knew in the next two minutes I would have to choose.

I also knew that if I stood in the clouded moonlight for more than two more minutes I would never decide.  Never deciding is the hallmark of all cowardly thought, and I hoped on this night that I would not be caught in its web as victim once again.  

                                         My Decision Was To Go

In ten short minutes, I emptied my room at the Pollard, checked out, and had the bike loaded and ready at the curb.  I put my warmest and most reflective riding gear on, all the while knowing that there was probably no one to see me. No one on that lonely road, except for the deer, coyote, or elk, that would undoubtedly question my sanity as they watched me ride by in the cold dark silence.  I stopped at the gas station at the end of town and topped off the tank --- just in case.  Just in case was something I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with, as the ride would at most take less than a half a tank of gas. It made me feel better though, so I topped off, paid the attendant, and rode slowly out towards U.S. Highway # 212.  

As I headed West toward the pass, I noticed one thing conspicuous in its absence. In fifteen minutes of travel, I had not passed one other vehicle of any kind going in either direction.  I was really alone tonight and not only in my thoughts.  It was going to be a solitary ride as I tried to cross the mountain. I would be alone with only my trusted bike as my companion which in all honesty — I knew in my heart before leaving the hotel.  

Alone, meant there would be no help if I got into trouble and no one to find me until probably morning at the earliest.  Surviving exposed on the mountain for at least twelve hours is a gamble I hoped I wouldn’t have to take.

I kept moving West. As I arrived at the base of the pass I stopped, put the kickstand down and looked up.  What was visible of the mountain in the clouded moonlight was only the bottom third of the Beartooth Highway. The top two thirds disappeared into a clouded mist, not giving up what it might contain or what future it may have hidden inside of itself for me.  With the kickstand back up and my high beam on, I slowly started my ascent up Beartooth Pass.

For the first six or seven miles the road surface was clear with snow lining both sides of the highway.  The mountain above, and the ones off to my right and to the North were almost impossible to see.  What I could make out though, was that they were totally snow covered making this part of southern Montana look more like December or January, instead of early June.  The road had only opened a month ago and it was still closing at least three out of every seven days.  I remembered to myself how in years past this road never really opened permanently until almost the 4th of July.

When the road was closed, it made the trip from Red Lodge to Cooke City a long one for those who had to go around the mountain.  Many people who worked in Cooke City actually lived in Red Lodge.  They would ‘brave’ the pass every night when it was open, but usually only during the summer months. They would do this in trucks with 4-wheel drive and S.U.V.’s but never on a motorcycle with only two wheels.  Trying to cross this pass on a motorcycle with high performance tires, in the fog, and at night, was a horse of an entirely different color.  

At about the seven-mile mark in my ascent I again stopped the bike and looked behind me. I was about to enter the cloud barrier.  The sight below from where I had just come was breathtakingly beautiful.  If this was to be the last thing I would ever see before   entering the cloud, it would be a fitting photograph on my passport into eternity.

I looked East again, and it was as if the lights from Red Lodge were calling me back, saying “Not tonight Kurt, this trip is to be made another time and for a better reason.” I paused, but could think of no better reason, as I heard the voice on the phone say inside my mind, “Please come,” so I retracted the kickstand and entered the approaching fog.

There was nothing inviting as I entered the cloud.  The dampness and the moisture were immediate and all enveloping, as the visibility dropped to less than fifty feet.  It was so thick I could actually see rain droplets as it passed over my headlight.  The road was still clear though and although it was hard to see, its surface was still good.  The animals that would normally concern me at this time of night were a distant memory to me now. The road stayed like this for what seemed to be another two or three miles, while it trapped me in its continuing time warp of what I still had to overcome.

It then turned sharply right, and I heard a loud ‘wail’ from inside the bike’s motor.  My heart immediately started racing as I thought to myself, ‘What a place to have the engine break down.’  It only took a few more seconds though to see that what I thought was engine failure was actually the tachometer revving off the scale on the dash.  The rear tire had lost traction, and in an involuntary and automated response I had given it more throttle to maintain my speed. I now had the engine turning at over 5000 r.p.m.’s in an attempt to get the rear tire to again make contact with the road.  Slowing my speed helped a little, but I was now down to 10 MPH, and it was barely fast enough to allow me to continue my ascent without the rear tire spinning again.

                                  I Could Still Turn Around And Go Back    

I was now at an elevation above 8,000 ft, and it was here that I had to make my last decision.  I could still turn around and go back.

While the road surface was only semi-good, I could turn around and head back in the direction from which I had just come.  I could go back safely, but to what and to whom? I knew my spirit and my heart would not go with me, both choosing to stay on this hill tonight regardless of the cost.  “If I turn around and go back, my fear is that in my lack of commitment, I will lose both of them forever. The mountain will have then claimed what my soul cannot afford to lose.”  I looked away from Red Lodge for the last time, and once again my eyes were pointed toward the mountain’s top.

It was three more miles to the summit based on my best estimation.

From there it would be all down hill.  The fear grew deeper inside of me that the descent would be even more treacherous as I crested the top and pushed on to the mountain town of Cooke City below.  Cooke City and Red Lodge were both in Montana, but the crest of this mountain was in Wyoming, and it looked down on both towns as if to say … ‘All passage comes only through me.’      

This time I did not stop and look over my shoulder. Instead, I said a short prayer to the gods that protect and watch over this place and asked for only one dispensation — and just one pass through the dark.  My back wheel continued to spin but then somehow it would always regain traction, and I continued to pray as I slowly approached the top.  

As I arrived at the summit, the road flattened out, but the cloud cover grew even more dense with visibility now falling to less than ten feet.  I now couldn’t see past my front fender, as the light from my headlamp bounced off the water particles with most of its illumination reflected back onto me and not on the road ahead.

In conditions like this it is very hard to maintain equilibrium and balance. Balance is the most essential component of any two-wheeled form of travel. Without at least two fixed reference points, it’s hard to stay straight upright and vertical.  I’ve only experienced this once before when going through a mountain tunnel whose lights had been turned off. When you can’t see the road beneath you, your inner sense of stability becomes compromised, and it’s easier than you might think to get off track and crash.

This situation has caused many motorcyclists to fall over while seemingly doing nothing wrong. It creates a strange combination of panic and vertigo and is not something you would ever want to experience or deal with on even a dry road at sea level.  On an icy road at this elevation however, it could spell the end of everything!

My cure for this has always been to put both feet down and literally drag them on top of the road surface below. This allows my legs to act as two tripods, warning me of when the bike is leaning either too far to the left or to the right.  It’s also dangerous. If either leg comes in contact with something on the road or gets hung up, it could cause the very thing it’s trying to avoid. I’ve actually run over my own foot with the rear wheel and it’s not something you want to do twice.

                     Often Causing What It’s Trying To Avoid

At the top of the pass, the road is flat for at least a mile and gently twists and turns from left to right.  It is a giant plateau,10,000 feet above sea level. The mountain then starts to descend westward as it delivers its melting snow and rain to the Western States. Through mighty rivers, it carries its drainage to the Pacific Ocean far beyond.  As I got to the end of its level plain, a passing thought entered my consciousness.  With the temperature here at the top having risen a little, and only just below freezing, my Kevlar foul-weather gear would probably allow me to survive the night.  On this mountaintop, there is a lot of open space to get off the road, if I could then only find a place to get out of the wind.  

I let that thought exit my mind as quickly as it entered. The bike was easily handling the flat icy areas, and I knew that the both of us wanted to push on.  I tried to use my cell phone at the top to call Mitch at home.  I was sure that by now he would be sitting by the fire and drinking something warm.  This is something I should have done before I made the final decision to leave.  I didn’t, because I was sure he would have tried to talk me out of it, or worse, have forbidden me to go. This was well within his right and purview as the Superintendent of all who passed over this mountain.

My phone didn’t work!  This was strange because it had worked from the top last spring when I called my family and also sent cell-phone pictures from the great mountain’s summit.  I actually placed three calls from the top that day, two to Pennsylvania and one to suburban Boston.

                                         But Not Tonight!

As I started my descent down the western *****, I knew it would be in first gear only.  In first gear the engine would act as a brake or limiter affecting my speed, hopefully without causing my back tire to lose traction and break loose. With almost zero visibility, and both feet down and dragging in the wet snow and ice, I struggled to stay in the middle of the road.  It had been over an hour since leaving Red Lodge, and I still had seen no other travelers going either East or West. I had seen no animals either, and tonight I was at least thankful for that.

The drop off to my right (North) was several thousand feet straight down to the valley below and usually visible even at night when not covered in such cloud and mist.  To my left was the mountain’s face interspersed with open areas which also dropped several thousands of feet to the southern valley below.  Everything was uncertain as I left the summit, and any clear scenery had disappeared in the clouds. What was certain though was my death if I got too close to the edge and was unable to recover and get back on the road.

There were guardrails along many of the turns and that helped, because it told me that the direction of the road was changing.  In the straight flat areas however it was open on both sides with nothing but a several thousand-foot fall into the oblivion below.

Twice I ran over onto the apron and felt my foot lose contact with the road surface meaning I was at the very edge and within two feet of my doom.  Twice, I was sure that my time on this earth had ended, and that I was headed for a different and hopefully better place. Twice, I counter steered the bike to the left and both feet regained contact with the road as the front tire weaved back and forth with only the back tire digging in and allowing me to stay straight up.

As I continued my descent, I noticed something strange and peculiar.  After a minute or two it felt like I was going faster than you could ever go in first gear.  It took only another instant to realize what was happening.  The traction to the rear tire was gone, and my bike and I were now sliding down the Western ***** of Beartooth pass.  The weight of the bike and myself, combined with the gravity of the mountain’s descent, was causing us to go faster than we could ever go by gearing alone.  Trying to go straight seemed like my only option as the bike felt like it had lost any ability to control where it was going.  This was the next to last thing I could have feared happening on this hill.

The thing I feared most was having to use either the front or rear brakes in a situation like this.  That would only ensure that the bike would go out of control totally, causing the rear wheel to come around broadside and result in the bike falling over on its opposite side. Not good!  Not good at all!

Thoughts of sliding off the side of the mountain and into the canyons below started running through my mind.  Either falling off the mountain or being trapped under the bike while waiting for the next semi-truck to run over me as it crossed the summit in the darkened fog was not something I welcomed. Like I said before, not good, not good at all!

My mind flashed back to when I was a kid and how fast it seemed we were going when sledding down the hill in front of the local hospital.  I also remembered my disappointment when one of the fathers told me that although it seemed fast, we were really only going about ten or fifteen miles an hour.  I wondered to myself how fast the bike was really going now, as it slid down this tallest of all Montana mountains? It seemed very, very fast.  I reminded myself over and over, to keep my feet down and my hand off the brakes.

If I was going to crash, I was going to try and do it in the middle of the road. Wherever that was now though, I couldn’t be sure.  It was finally the time to find out what I had really learned after riding a motorcycle for over forty years.  I hoped and prayed that what I had learned in those many years of riding would tonight be enough.

As we continued down, the road had many more sharp turns, swerving from right to left and then back right again.  Many times, I was right at the edge of my strength. My legs battled to keep the bike upright, as I fought it as it wanted to lean deeper into the turns.  I almost thought I had the knack of all this down, when I instantaneously came out of the cloud.  I couldn’t believe, and more accurately didn’t want to believe, what I was seeing less than a half mile ahead.

The road in front of me was totally covered in black ice.  Black ice look’s almost like cinders at night and can sometimes deceive you into thinking it holds traction when exactly the opposite is true. This trail of black ice led a half mile down the mountain to where it looked like it ended under a guardrail at the end.  What I thought was the end was actually a switchback turn of at least 120 degrees.

It turned sharply to the right before going completely out of my sight into the descending blackness up ahead.

My options now seemed pretty straightforward while bleak.  I could lay the bike down and hope the guard rail would stop us before cascading off the mountain, or I could try to ride it out with the chances of making it slim at best.  I tried digging my feet into the black ice as brakes, as a kid would do on a soapbox car, but it did no good.  The bike kept pummeling toward the guardrail, and I was sure I was now going faster than ever.  As my feet kept bouncing off the ice, it caused the bike to wobble in the middle of its slide. This was now the last thing I needed as I struggled not to fall.

As I got close to the guardrail, and where the road turned sharply to the right, I felt like I was going 100 miles an hour.  I was now out of the cloud and even in the diffused moonlight I could see clearly both sides of the road.  With some visibility I could now try and stay in the middle, as my bike and I headed towards the guardrail not more than 500 feet ahead.  The valley’s below to the North and South were still thousands of feet below me, and I knew when I tried to make the turn that there would be no guardrail to protect me from going off the opposite right, or Northern side.

                   Time Was Running Out, And A Choice Had To Be Made

The choices ran before my eyes one more time — to be trapped under a guardrail or to run off a mountain into a several thousand foot abyss.  But then all at once my soul screamed NO, and that I did have one more choice … I could decide to just make it. I would try by ‘force of will’ to make it around that blind turn.  I became reborn once again in the faith of my new decision not to go down, and I visually saw myself coming out the other side in my mind’s eye.

                                        I Will Make That Turn

I remembered during this moment of epiphany what a great motorcycle racer named **** Mann had said over forty years ago.  

**** said “When you find yourself in trouble, and in situations like this, the bike is normally smarter than you are.  Don’t try and muscle or overpower the motorcycle.  It’s basically a gyroscope and wants to stay upright.  Listen to what the bike is telling you and go with that. It’s your best chance of survival, and in more cases than not, you’ll come out OK.”  With ****’s words fresh and breathing inside of me, I entered the right-hand turn.

As I slowly leaned the bike over to the right, I could feel the rear tire break loose and start to come around.  As it did, I let the handlebars point the front tire in the same direction as the rear tire was coming.  We were now doing what flat track motorcycle racers do in a turn — a controlled slide! With the handlebars totally pressed against the left side of the tank, the bike was fully ‘locked up’ and sliding with no traction to the right.  The only control I had was the angle I would allow the bike to lean over,which was controlled by my upper body and my right leg sliding below me on the road.

Miraculously, the bike slid from the right side of the turn to the left.  It wasn’t until I was on the left apron that the back tire bit into the soft snow and regained enough traction to set me upright. I was not more than three feet from the now open edge leading to a certain drop thousands of feet below.  The traction in the soft snow ****** the bike back upright and had me now pointed in a straight line diagonally back across the road.  Fighting the tendency to grab the brakes, I sat upright again and counter steered to the left. Just before running off the right apron, I was able to get the bike turned and headed once again straight down the mountain.  It was at this time that I took my first deep breath.

In two hundred more yards the ice disappeared, and I could see the lights of Cooke City shining ten miles out in the distance. The road was partially dry when I saw the sign welcoming me to this most unique of all Montana towns.  To commemorate what had just happened, I was compelled to stop and look back just one more time.  I put the kickstand down and got off the bike.  For a long minute I looked back up at the mountain. It was still almost totally hidden in the cloud that I had just come through.  I wondered to myself if any other motorcyclists had done what I had just done tonight — and survived.  I knew the stories of the many that had run off the mountain and were now just statistics in the Forest Service’s logbook, but I still wondered about those others who may had made it and where their stories would rank with mine.

I looked up for the last time and said thank you, knowing that the mountain offered neither forgiveness nor blame, and what I had done tonight was of my own choosing. Luck and whatever riding ability I possessed were what had seen me through. But was it just that, or was it something else? Was it something beyond my power to choose, and something still beyond my power to understand?  If the answer is yes, I hope it stays that way.  Until on a night like tonight, some distant mountain high above some future valley, finally claims me as its own.

                     Was Crossing Tonight Beyond My Power To Choose?

After I parked the bike in front of the Super 8 in Cooke City, I walked into the lobby and the desk clerk greeted me. “Mr Behm,

it’s good to see you again, I’m glad we were able to reach you with that second phone call.  We received a cancellation just before nine, and the only room we had left became available for the night.”

I have heard the calling in many voices and in many forms.  Tonight, it told me that my place was to be in Cooke City and my time in Red Lodge had come to an end.  Some may need more or better reasons to cross their mountain in the dark, but for me, the only thing necessary was for it to call.

                                               …  Until It Calls Again





Gardiner Montana- May, 1996

my life so fragmented
like these passing
highway lines
foot to floor
the coalescing neon
of this dark city -
a beautiful place
for a ceremony.

my best man
beneath the hood -
my most trusted, honored friend
assures me
that this ceremony
will be memorable,
it will be
the best thing i've
ever done.

i look down the aisle
and i can see her...
my beautiful bride
shimmering silver
along side the
pavement parson
waiting for our vows
dearly beloved
we are gathered here today
among the congregation
of shattered glass -
til death do us part
i do.

I'm not one to hold on,
when I know that I am being let go.

Don't cry and act like I've wronged you,
because you know that's not right.

When I reached out for you countless times
you burrowed deeper into the mud,
and I do not chase crayfish,
because we are not crayfish.

Pretend that I am evil and malicious,
but you know that you can only act that way.

I have a heart and it doesn't lie,
even when it finds a mattress of magpies.

I never had intentions to get you in bed,
I just wanted you to come inside
for some coffee and some sober.

I cannot speed up like a high contrast mix,
I cannot slow down chopped and *******,
I can only operate on what my heart feels
and what your heart tells it to feel.

And your heart is telling me to move on,
to churn on the exit ramps.

I have not wronged you in the right way,
or righted you in the wrong way.

Is caring about you the next left?
Is that where the houses knock their feet
on the concrete and the guardrail
at the dead end?

If so, hate me for good,
**** the engine
and idle with your lips on the guardrail.

Now this was way back in seventy-five,
when seat belts weren't worn, to keep you alive.
On a winding, ocean highway, we drove,
the weather, clear and sunny at the cove.

As we came to the spot that goes round,
my husband, then boyfriend, did slow down.
He reached for his seat belt, he never used,
then said, "Maybe you should put yours on too".

We drove round that bend, then it happened.
It was like a big hand was the weapon.
We were hit with such force we both did wobble,
in our seats, then we saw our new trouble.

We were sliding quickly across the lanes,
heading for a guardrail that would save us pain.
But we missed that saviour rail by quite a ways.
Down the grassy hillside we slid sideways.

At that moment, went by, two speeding big rigs,
trying to pass side by side round that bend.
One had been in our lane, coming head on,
the other, his bumper, along the guardrail, slid on.

Coming to a stop between a tree trunk and large boulder.
Our car had started to want to roll over.
Being held there, with two wheels in the air,
Railroad tracks, fifty feet were below us there.

We sat and took stock of our fortunate good luck.
We could have been mowed down by either truck.
As for hubby to have just then, used a seat belt,
something guided him, he was sure that he felt.

We both managed to crawl from the tilted car,
there were two dents in the door, we were jarred.
As we began our long climb up that hill,
we noticed the air go perfectly still.

The car moaned wanting to finish it's roll,
as a train flew by on the tracks just below.
At the top of the hill , we could only stare,
and relive, what had just happened there.

Our lives that day had been saved more than once.
Of evidence of what had transpired, there was.
The tree, where the rear of the car was seated,
was recently uprooted, falling just where needed.

The dents in the door were hand sized
and spread apart from each other, just right.
As though a divine source from above,
had given our car, a much needed shove.


Note:  This is a true recounting of what took place
while hubby and I were driving
along the Oregon Coast Highway 101
in August of 1975

She was the guardrail;
that stopped me every time I pressed on the gas a bit too hard. She stopped me from going over the edge every time I went too fast around the sharp corners.
She held my hand while they picked out all the bone chips and cut off my blood stained clothes, it could have been worse but she stopped me from going off the edge of the cliff with her guardrail heart.

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.

I'll be the first to admit that I love
that adrenaline rush.
I loved having the chance to be the wild child I wanted to be.
It was all great.
Speed Racer.
I've seen you almost smash into a guardrail on a bridge,
have two head-on-collisions.
One with a car, the other with a bus.
You've hit 95 in 35 mph zone. I couldn't wrap my head around how you did that.
It's scared me from day 1 that one of us could get hurt.
That adrenaline rush kept me going though.
Racing you, Speed Racer, was my guilty pleasure.
However, I don't know what I would do
if I could stand seeing you
crash into a guardrail
or have a head-on collision.
I can't be responsible.
And when that chick told me that she hoped I crashed because it would be funny...
That's why I told you I couldn't participate anymore.
It kills me, Speed Racer.
My resistance can only be so strong.
It kills me that I can't take part in my guilty pleasure.
It kills me that I can no longer race you, Speed Racer.

You never knew why I loved you & I would always give a cliche answer about how only you can be you

That's true

But also loving you I found out that loving myself wasn't too bad
That loving you made loving myself worth it

When I had that shotgun in my lap I had all my trauma right on the surface
Things I couldn't change, or maybe I could
I don't know

I couldn't stop my dad from seeing prostitutes just like I couldn't stop my mom from hitting him for four hours

I couldn't stop my friends from killing themselves, except maybe for her
Everyone says it's not my fault
But
If I was the only thing she was living for
Why is she dead?

These are the thoughts in my head just like the last time I spoke to you
Here I am with the same thoughts once again
But with no shotgun
And no you

Because the thing I didn't want you to hear
The thing I didn't want to face
Was that I was dying loving you
Because you didn't love me
So I wasn't worth loving myself
I was better off dead

So I write to the memory I have of you
Again
To tell you I'm so sorry
I made our friendship the guardrail against the cliff of my despair
It was unfair to you
Two years and a hollowed out heart has changed me
Changed my thoughts about you & I
I still love you
Even when you never loved me
I pray you are free
I hope you're in love
And maybe you think of me
Our memories
Its all okay
I'm okay

That coffin nail smile
All the while it never broke.
**** after ****, we took the plant apart,
As if the night was a chocolate cake,
And we knew it wouldn't last.
Cast of with a flick of the hand,
They were like that ash,
They never understood,
It was never any good.

But you were so good Betty.
That ***** blond mop,
The halter top,
And that coffin nail smile,
All the while, it never broke.

They say, you had it on your face still,
When they pulled you out of the wreck,
A few teeth short, bloodied,
But intact.

I beat myself up over it,
Nonstop.
Its a horror,
What four hours can do.
To have the world wrapped up in a piece of bambu,
Twenty-two records, without a single skippable song,
A plant in full bloom,
A room with a you...

I saw the *******, two months later,
Drinking himself to death,
In the Orlando international airport lounge.
******* on an olive, and sobbing on your picture.
I wanted so much to strangle him
Until his eyes popped out of his head,
Until he was dead...like he made you.
But I figured...he was doing a good enough job on his own,
So I left him alone.
I'll never forgive him though...
He's been dead twenty years now,
But I'll never forgive him...
For hitting that guardrail at ninety...
And for walking away, with a broken collar bone,
While you...
Oh Betty,
You were so ******...

Why didn't you stay that night,
Stay with me...

You didn't...

Oh, Betty...
Why did you leave us like that,
Why did you leave me...

isn't it time

for penitence?

I just forget everything

and don't talk to anyone

except for you, dear Lord, you are my ball and chain

having died and come back again I get to look back
watching old movies of myself,
sleeping last night off, leg twitching
dreaming of moving along a motorcade of immanent death

one by one getting flat tires, running out of gas, suddenly the battery
dies

I get out of the car, look around, and see, to my surprise

a loved one's love looking back at me, twisting in the wind, empty, alone, drunk,
its my father or mother lifting my brother or sister from the back seat to the front, carelessly driving, ceaselessly swerving

towards the waterway

if it wasn't for the guardrail,  we'd all be dead

time is a ritual now, and it hurts to come back to life, to feed the living,
to get dressed in day-old church clothes, to hit back, as one sneers at being sneered at, I pick up the Daily and skim the headlines, Lost and All Alone, A Stranger Takes a Dive, toss the rag and head to work, fixing to lie to my boss about being sick, about tasting olives, about who I am.

We met up at dobra tea.
Both our bodies were too long
For the tiny tables.
But we loved the atmosphere too much to care.
"I might have stalked you a little bit" she says
Handing me a slip of paper.
"I may have also read your poetry."
It's a poem about what beverage she would be.
I neatly fold it up and hand it back.
"It's perfect."
"Keep it" she says.
"Keep it?"
"Yeah, don't make it weird just keep it."
~~~
The beautiful woman now sits between myself and a bridge.
There is a bike path leading underneath towards the sun.
A guard rail separates us from the
Ocean and seaweed below.

All the trinkets in my pockets
Have been emptied onto the rocks beside me
So as I not hurt myself attempting to conceal them.
We sit against the guard rail holding hands.
"My mom doesn't let me show my sisters pokemon.
Because of evolution.
She's one of those super christians." She says.

"I'm an atheist
But every thing I've ever prayed for has come true.
So, I don't know anymore."

She sits on the guardrail and my head leans against her thigh.
Her fingers run through my hair.

There are so many things I want, that I can't have.
This get's typed into my phone and tucked away like a secret.
"Sorry" I say, and stand up, facing her.

Her forehead leans into my chest.
My arms hold her as I stare into the ocean.

"I have a song stuck in my head" she says.
"Sing it for me."
"I don't know the whole song"
"Sing the part you know"
"Well I only know one line and it's weird."
"Sing the one line, I don't care how awkward it is, I wanna hear it"

"Maybe I'm only in love when you wake me up."

"You didn't tell me you were a GOOD singer."

She reaches for my neck.

"What's your necklace mean?
Well it's the game of thrones martel sigil
People think it's for the show.
But it's for my ex's daughter...
A tattoo was a bad idea,
I can eventually get rid of a necklace."

We notice the sun setting and decide to check it out
As we get up and start walking,
I start to sing.
"I've never been the one to win it all."
~~~
I swing around a lampost and walk to the metal fence at my right.
I stare awhile at the sunset before
Crawling up the slanted wall to my left and sitting up top.
I scribble a note on the wall.
It reads:

"Dear god: please let me kiss her, Amen."

The beautiful creature still stands at the bottom of the ledge.

"You aren't allowed to say i'm a good singer when you sound like that." She says.
"It's like watching a live music video."

I run down and hold her against the metal fence
Our lips dare each other to inch closer.
She pushes her forehead into mine.

"What'd you write?"
She asks.
"It's not for you.
If you want to read it you have to climb up there and find it."

"Ooh you ***."
She crawls up the wall and searches.
"Where is it?"
"That's the fun, you gotta find it."
She finds it.
"This handwriting is awful.
I literally can't read it."
"I didn't want you too."
The sun sets and it's finally dark.
"Think it's dark enough to climb that building?"
~~~
We trek back through the woodsy path
It's pitch black and terrifying.
"We're gonna get eaten by cannibals"
"There's cannibals in maine?"
"There are in this particular part of maine."
We get to the school and start stacking milkcrates like a staircase.
She puts a wooden pallet against the milkcrates
Propping them against the wall.
"You're brilliant."
"I have good ideas sometimes" she says.
Testing the water my feet scale the landmark.
Then come down to support it
While the lady goes up.
After she's safe I follow her.
Adrenaline hits us.
"We're on a freaking roof right now."
"Are we going to fall in?"
"Is there like a trick to walking on rooftops?"
My body plops down and looks at the sky.
"Oh my god...
Please look at the stars with me "
She lays next to me.
"You know how I've been saying I've been transforming a lot of good little ****** girls
Into blood lusting sirens as of late?" She says.
"Yeah."
"I'm starting to think it's not just girls."
"Can I say something cute?
Or would that make things harder?" I ask.
"Say it."
Her breath is sweet.
You have the body of the most gorgeous woman I've ever slept with.
The personality of the woman I fell in love with
The dorkiness of my first high school girlfriend.
The eagerness to get to know me of someone new.
After my ex left me I said I would never love again.
I've been having tons of meaningless ***
Striving for company.
Greif ******* my feelings away
But you.
I'd buy a ******* house with you.

She kisses me.
"Why do you have to be so perfect?" She sobs.
We stay like this.
She moans and wiggles.
We hold our bodies together.
You wanna know what that note on the rocks said?" I ask.
"Yes."
I tell her.
"I'm a terrible wife." She says.
"And I'm a terrible atheist."

Climbing through barbed wire
Fence and into the
Trees and through the
Bogs and across the
Ice and over the
Swamp on my hands and
Knees in the frozen mud
With my nose near the
Paw prints of squirrels and the
Sound of the river rushing in my
Ears and then over my body -
Freezing and sharp to wake me
Up - then onto the
Rocks and past the sign which
Read "no trespassers" a little
Too late, then on up the
Road and over the
Guardrail
Onto the trail
Past the fields
Over the wheel ruts
And under the chain
Back home again,
Soaking wet
And very much
Happier
To be alive.

We called him Kansas because he reminded us of open spaces,
but we should have called him nothing at all.
He had a last name but we didn’t bother to learn it,
something all-American, midwestern and bland.
He had no hometown but a drifter’s restlessness in his limbs.


Kansas had a girl called Daisy-May, which wasn’t her given name.
It was said that she could charm the rattle out of the snake,
and we never knew if that was a a good or a bad thing.
Daisy-May reminded us of the Forth of July, all sparklers and rocket pops,
Cut-off shorts and bottles of whiskey.  She crackled like a firework display.


Our town overflowed with them, we were too small, too pure,
and they were too combustable. Daisy-May was as mean as they come,
and Kansas was ugly in the same way that Saturday nights are.
Knowing him was like being drunk past midnight, alone and walking
home past ***** neon and watching the stars pass you by.  


Every teenager in the county awoke at the moment of impact,
the night Kansas drove his car through that barn on route 20.  
We flocked like pilgrims to touch the twisted metal of the guardrail.
We followed the dead grass tire marks like the yellow brick road.
Daisy-May was lovely as ever laid out in white like the ****** herself.

On nights when it’s so dry that our skin turns to dust and blows
away, we think of Kansas and Daisy-May and how they caught fire.
Patron saints of our frustration, desperation, too ugly to be real.
Bottle rockets on the Forth of July. Shot from some lonely road
to explode lights in the sky, to blot out the stars for a moment, then die.

there is a universe inside your chest
infinitely expanding
though infinitesimally slow
at times
boundaries stretch, breathe
though confusing at times
destruction feeds growth,
dichotomous paradox forms whole,
stars implode, give way to supernovas,
give way to planets filled with lava and snow
there, inside, a universe
constantly churning,
the incessant spin of all burning
that births light and shadow

here I stand on the precipice.
here, in an amorphous dusk and dawn,
unclear if day or night
is about to kiss the horizon
unsure if I should call to moon or sun
or neither,
or    you.
here in limbo, arching my spine to
sneak under the guardrail of loving
here, instinctually shoving myself
into bottlenecks and genie lamps
oh, how my gypsy soul wants to run,
yet feels so enchanted it stays, here
on the precipice,
itching to gain entrance
into the universe brimming
inside of you

there
there, inside your chest
there I said it.     and I'll say it again,
and I'll say it even louder:
I confess! I'm enchanted!
I'm enamored, enthralled, enraptured,
I want my heart
to know your heart,
I want to dive chest-first into your outer space galaxy nest
an astronaut without a helmet,
I want to explore, awestruck
never trying to label, box, or understand - simply experience
your universe

there, I finally said it
I'm finally starting
to write the poems I'm afraid of,
the ones I don't want to say out loud
I'm starting to write out shadows and solar flares and floods,
starting to let my heart bleed out of my pen, cause
what the hell am I hiding from?
what are we all so scared of?
we were ****** into this strange world
blind and wet,
groping in the darkness for heaven
meant to rip ourselves open again, again
meant to feel with the depth and tempest of oceans
meant to risk and be fools and fall to meet rose-hued ends

I just want to make love with the light
of a thousand candles, a million stars, and the moon turned on
and panting
silver dripping from her tongue,
dizzy with the heat of solar undulations,
stripping down to the heart of the matter
down to the simple truth of it all:
I was born to feel,
and my god, you...
you make me feel universes
you make me feel thunder and lightning and bedroom churches and power surges
you make me feel sunrise stillness
and it makes me fall silent.
so here I am, writing the poems I'm afraid of
and sending them out, messages
in bottles, adrift
in the endless oceans of your universe

Two hours till Kentucky-
The world is on fast-forward around us
The side of my forehead is flat
against the passenger side window
Trees crowd behind guardrail for miles - 
protesting highway pollution.

Two hours till Kentucky -
On the eighth round about this CD.
about around the fifth listen, songs began to blend into one another, morphing into ambient noise
that filled the empty moments between conversation
and the struggle against waves of tempting sleep.

Two hours till Kentucky-
I pause the song to explain
the biographical significance
of a particular lyric.
You're too focused on
the nerve-wracking traffic to indulge me.

Two hours till Kenricky-
My seat reclined, I am watching the clouds
creeping briskly across the sky
through the panorama of the windshield -
a silent movie.

Two hours till Kentucky -
an eternity of moments
gone as soon as they happen.
Evaporating into the air

We'll be there
in no time.

He put the gun back in the safe and said to himself “I don’t want to end up like Kurt”.

-JP

Imagine this:

We are in a car that is
plummeting over a cliff
after spinning through a guardrail
off an icy mountain road, and we know
that our time is hopeless
and about to end so
I stare at you intently while
the rocks below
come racing toward us.

Can you see the look on my face?

This is how I look at you
every morning
between 6:15 and 6:25,

10 minutes
of loving the gift of you
with my eyes,

as if I’m
about to lose you
and I need to sear your image
in my mind
so it will always be with me,

even in death.

Today I died on the freeway
by the overpass on the 427

a hot and relentless August rain
made it too dark to be five thirty

I walked home slowly from work
as you do when you're tired

oh yes, I was sad too
but we all are

it's easy to be sad
when it rains in August

when I reached the overpass
in the middle I leaned over

my hair passed my eyes
and droplets fell

down, down

I thought about it
twenty feet into traffic

the guardrail is never as useful
as a sweet and good-hearted hug

so then I thought better of it
and put my headphones in

I died on the freeway
then got up and kept walking.

Sometimes in the summer,
I walk down to the empty part of
my neighborhood at dawn.
there, vacant lots stretch their dry-grass-legs
and recline on the hillsides, napping.
they, the part of the American dream
that you always forget about when you finally wake up,
are the unwanted kin of proud homes.
by a storm drainage lake, brown with algae,
I take a seat on a rusted guardrail
and as I look across the water, hypoxic and still
for a moment transforming into fool's
gold before my eyes, as if Midas has crested the horizon,
I feel the gaze of my transcendental father,
and wonder why I'm able to feel at peace.

The guardrail
and every exit sign
pulls me farther away
from your mother’s house
as I watched the lightning
spiderweb across the sky,
roots growing through the clouds
illuminating the road ahead
for just a split second
but then a swift return
to the rain and gloom.

In my head,
I’m in your room
with the sun pouring through
the blinds and bushes
outside your window
projecting a slideshow of light
onto the walls surrounding us.
I’m warm and I think about
how I need to try
and make very specific
plans with you,
so that I know for certain
I’ll see you again
and at least
I can hold onto
the thought of that
at night.

I'm the invisible man
I'm the ugly duckling
I'm that kid who dresses up like Aquaman
When the rest of my friends dress like the
Justice League
No, it really feels like this
It feels like I got hit by a car
On a back road of some lesser known town
And the driver kept on driving
My body's lying in some
Sagebrush beyond the guardrail,
Twitching
My breathing is becoming shallow,
Broken,
And it's fading quicker than I'd like
I've got crimson blood pouring out my nose
And my head throbs
Like the beating of hearts that would never beat for me
My bones are wrapped around one
Another as if their comfort would bring
Any to my splintered soul
Headlights, taillights
They're all just lights that will never set my pathetic frame aglow
So, I lie in sorrow that I never stood up in the crowd
My tongue tastes the bloodied mess
Of dislodged teeth that fumble in my mouth
I realize that I never had a voice
I couldn't tell God to leave me alone
Because in the end of it all,
I never wanted to be left to myself

-The grinding metal of my grandmothers car being junked because she could no longer drive it, or afford to feed the cat.

-Apologies and Band-Aid wrappers taking turns being tossed to the floor as my father cleaned up ****** knees that he tripped me into.

-The baby's cry that wouldn't stop no matter how many times the pastor pleaded with his congregation to relieve the sanctuary of their miserable children.

-The violent scream of both a passenger and rubber burning against pavement, followed by a demolished guardrail, motorcycle, and skull. As heard from the neighboring yard, over s'mores.

-Four gunshots. And then a single siren.

This list includes:
Things more pleasurable to hear
than the sound of the ringing
that was left in my ears
when all you could say
was "it's weird".

Meet me in the park

By the old dying tree

We’ll share our secrets in the dark

And maybe we’ll be able to see

Meet me on the bridge

By the guardrail

We’ll explain our stories

And maybe we’ll be able to set sail

Meet me on the beach

By the shore

We’ll explore

And maybe even tell each other more

Meet me on the dock

By the old forgotten cove

I’ll keep the key

You keep the lock

And we’ll drift out to sea

Just you, all of our secrets, and me.

you taught me how to go on adventures
and leave my phone at home
and how to let time slide by
and ignore my calendar

you taught me to how to stay in bed
all day
with you
and do nothing but be cold together

you taught me to go swimming in storms
and to smoke in the snow
you taught me how to be ignored
and how to give up on someone

you taught me to swallow words
and win staring contests
and to never stop asking questions
even when nobody had the answers

you taught me to be right
and to stop lying and start laughing
and to swim in my underwear
in the middle of the forest

you taught me how to walk on a guardrail
holding your hand
and find treasures in the trees
and run away from home

you taught me that fear is just an obstacle
you taught me that you're afraid
of something too
even if you hide it too well

you taught me that I'll never be perfect
and neither will you
and you carved an M into my lighter
just because you knew

I taught you to drink in the morning
instead of eating breakfast
and smoke in the bathtub
and fog up mirrors and draw secrets

I taught you to forget me
and to fight back
and that im not and never will be ticklish
I taught you how to say i miss you

I taught you to be 19
and to write letters
I taught you my favorite things
and my quirks and sparks and games

I was going to teach you to play chess
and to braid my hair
you were going to lean Old Pine on guitar
but you gave up

I was going to teach you to love
and to know everything
I was going to teach you my middle name
and how to read Brave New World

I was going to teach you to hold on
But you taught me to let go
and I learned that nobody breaks my heart
not even you

As birds we fly- to flee, persecution of day, the chains that hold us in our ways. Diving down
the curving road, over the guardrail- a winding path coated with loose sand- edging along sheer cliff,
where thorns of wild bush conceals our secret, and unyielding currents of whispering wind, carry us always further on...

There it lies
our alcove-
three walls of sun
worn sand,
cradling us as we gaze
out on ocean-
the day fading
while celestial stars
gleam down
and there we lie,
bounds untied.

One life and beating heart.
sun on my scalp
concrete beneath my feet
the faint scent of diesel smoke
clings to my shirt
my shirt clings to me in the scorching heat

Fresh off a southbound train i walk towards the sounds
of a nearby town
i near a road with traffic zipping by
and step over the guardrail.

i let out a relieving sigh
its so good to see cars and other people

when a few hours prior i called a boxcar,home
23 hrs crawling thru the desert heat

i now unloaded my pack
knelt down
and kissed the street

Not exactly that swan
lifting white grace
to the heavens
Nope
but thud and tug and ping
and whipping thud again
taking flight out across the highway
in my rear-view
Scuttled dust  
fiberglass flattened
by the truck behind
White-knuckling wheel while
       mentally    compute
split-second sounds and feels for damage...

I guess?
everything's
okay...?

First it was that blowout
Then one by one
the hubcaps lost their grips, their minds
and went their ways
to join the trash
of butts and chunks of mattress
fast-food wrappers, road-****
by the guardrail
of another day

Most recent--
Antenna disconnect
Fixed with tape 'cause
Gotta have that music
heat, AC, tires, breaks
Ya know-- important things
like that steady humming engine

Destined to be--
buckboard to the beach or heaven
whichever's first
by the time its twenty
Much nearer than I'd care to say
Ode to Car and Driver
who get there--

in all good hope, together

             :)

ill slam my head against the steering wheel and cry for as long as i want to
you only just told me about it inside anyway
who am i to react in front of you? and who gives a **** either way?
tell you what, i don't give two

at this point my knuckles are bleeding
from punching the shotgun seat of my corolla
because i still couldn't believe it, or at least i didn't want to

took the scenic route home from where i found out
gulped down enough xanax to **** a horse and i knew i was ready
head on, full collision, full impact

dead on arrival, still breathing, but dead; gone that is to say

the last glimpse of this world i can recall is  that of a small prism of light refracting off of my rearview mirror as i slammed into the guardrail