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We had wanted to leave our homes before six in the morning
but left late and lazy at ten or ten-thirty with hurried smirks
and heads turned to the road, West
driving out against the noonward horizon
and visions before us of the great up-and-over

and tired we were already of stiff-armed driving neurotics in Montreal
and monstrous foreheaded yellow bus drivers
ugly children with long middle fingers
and tired we were of breaking and being yelled at by beardless bums
but thought about the beards at home we loved
and gave a smile and a wave nonetheless

Who were sick and tired of driving by nine
but then had four more hours still
with half a tank
then a third of a tank
then a quarter of a tank
then no tank at all
except for the great artillery halt and discovery
of our tyre having only three quarters of its bolts

Saved by the local sobriety
and the mystic conscious kindness of the wise and the elderly
and the strangers: Autoshop Gale with her discount familiar kindness;
Hilda making ready supper and Ray like I’ve known you for years
that offered me tools whose functions I’ve never known
and a handshake goodbye

     and "yes we will say hello to your son in Alberta"
     and "yes we will continue safely"
     and "no you won’t see us in tomorrow’s paper"
     and tired I was of hearing about us in tomorrow’s paper

Who ended up on a road laughing deliverance
in Ralphton, a small town hunting lodge
full of flapjacks and a choir of chainsaws
with cheap tomato juice and eggs
but the four of us ended up paying for eight anyway

and these wooden alley cats were nothing but hounds
and the backwoods is where you’d find a cheap child's banjo
and cheap leather shoes and bear traps and rat traps
and the kinds of things you’d fall into face first

Who sauntered into a cafe in Massey
that just opened up two weeks previous
where the food was warm and made from home
and the owner who swore to high heaven
and piled her Sci-Fi collection to the ceiling
in forms of books and VHS

but Massey herself was drowned in a small town
where there was little history and heavy mist
and the museum was closed for renovations
and the stores were run by diplomats
or sleezebag no-cats
and there was one man who wouldn’t show us a room
because his baby sitter hadn’t come yet
but the babysitter showed up through the backdoor within seconds
though I hadn't seen another face

        and the room was a landfill
        and smelled of stale cat **** anyhow
        and the lobby stacked to the ceiling with empty beer box cans bottles
        and the taps ran cold yellow and hot black through spigots

but we would be staying down the street
at the inn of an East-Indian couple

who’s eyes were not dilated 
and the room smelled
lemon-scented

and kept on driving lovingly without a care in the world
but only one of us had his arms around a girl
and how lonely I felt driving with Jacob
in the fog of the Agawa pass;

following twin red eyes down a steep void mass
where the birch trees have no heads
and the marshes pool under the jagged foothills
that climb from the water above their necks

that form great behemoths
with great voices bellowing and faces chiselled hard looking down
and my own face turned upward toward the rain

Wheels turning on a black asphalt river running uphill around great Superior
that is the ocean that isn’t the ocean but is as big as the sea
and the cloud banks dig deep and terrible walls

and the sky ends five times before night truly falls
and the sun sets slower here than anywhere
but the sky was only two miles high and ten long anyway

The empty train tracks that seldom run
and some rails have been lifted out
with a handful of spikes that now lay dormant

and the hill sides start to resemble *******
or faces or the slow curving back of some great whale

-and those, who were finally stranded at four pumps
with none but the professional Jacob reading great biblical instructions at the nozzle
nowhere at midnight in a town surrounded

by moose roads
                             moose lanes
                                                     moose rivers
and everything mooses

ending up sleeping in the maw of a great white wolf inn
run by Julf or Wolf or John but was German nonetheless

and woke up with radios armed
and arms full
and coffee up to the teeth
with teeth chattering
and I swear to God I saw snowy peaks
but those came to me in waking dream:

"Mountains dressed in white canvas
gowns and me who placed
my hands upon their *******
that filled the sky"

Passing through a buffet of inns and motels
and spending our time unpacking and repacking
and talking about drinking and cheap sandwiches
but me not having a drink in eight days

and in one professional inn we received a professional scamming
and no we would not be staying here again
and what would a trip across the country be like
if there wasn’t one final royal scamming to be had

and dreams start to return to me from years of dreamless sleep:

and I dream of hers back home
and ribbons in a raven black lattice of hair
and Cassadaic exploits with soft but honest words

and being on time with the trains across the plains  
and the moon with a shower of prairie blonde
and one of my father with kind words
and my mother on a bicycle reassuring my every decision

Passing eventually through great plains of vast nothingness
but was disappointed in seeing that I could see
and that the rumours were false
and that nothingness really had a population
and that the great flat land has bumps and curves and etchings and textures too

beautiful bright golden yellow like sprawling fingers
white knuckled ablaze reaching up toward the sun
that in this world had only one sky that lasted a thousand years

and prairie driving lasts no more than a mountain peak
and points of ember that softly sigh with the one breath
of our cars windows that rushes by with gratitude for your smile

And who was caught up with the madness in the air
with big foaming cigarettes in mouths
who dragged and stuffed down those rolling fumes endlessly
while St. Jacob sang at the way stations and billboards and the radio
which was turned off

and me myself and I running our mouth like the coughing engine
chasing a highway babe known as the Lady Valkyrie out from Winnipeg
all the way to Saskatoon driving all day without ever slowing down
and eating up all our gas like pez and finally catching her;

      Valkyrie who taught me to drive fast
      and hovering 175 in slipstreams
      and flowing behind her like a great ghost Cassady ******* in dreamland Nebraska
      only 10 highway crossings counted from home.

Lady Valkyrie who took me West.
Lady Valkyrie who burst my wings into flame as I drew a close with the sun.
Lady Valkyrie who had me howl at slender moon;

     who formed as a snowflake
     in the light on the street
     and was gone by morning
     before I asked her name

and how are we?
and how many?

Even with old Tom devil singing stereo
and riding shotgun the entire trip from day one
singing about his pony, and his own personal flophouse circus,
and what was he building in there?

There is a fair amount of us here in these cars.
Finally at light’s end finding acquiescence in all things
and meeting with her eye one last time; flashed her a wink and there I was, gone.
Down the final highway crossing blowing wind and fancy and mouth puttering off
roaring laughter into the distance like some tremendous Phoenix.

Goodnight Lady Valkyrie.

The evening descends and turns into a sandwich hysteria
as we find ourselves riding between cities of transports
and that one mad man that passed us speeding crazy
and almost hit head-on with Him flowing East

and passed more and more until he was head of the line
but me driving mad lunacy followed his tail to the bumper
passing fifteen trucks total to find our other car
and felt the great turbine pull of acceleration that was not mine

mad-stacked behind two great beasts
and everyone thought us moon-crazy; Biblical Jake
and Mad Hair Me driving a thousand
eschewing great gusts of wind speed flying

Smashing into the great ephedrine sunset haze of Saskatoon
and hungry for food stuffed with the thoughts of bedsheets
off the highway immediately into the rotting liver of dark downtown
but was greeted by an open Hertz garage
with a five-piece fanfare brass barrage
William Tell and a Debussy Reverie
and found our way to bedsheets most comfortably

Driving out of Saskatoon feeling distance behind me.
Finding nothing but the dead and hollow corpses of roadside ventures;

more carcasses than cars
and one as big as a moose
and one as big as a bear
and no hairier

and driving out of sunshine plain reading comic book strip billboards
and trees start to build up momentum
and remembering our secret fungi in the glove compartment
that we drove three thousand kilometres without remembering

and we had a "Jesus Jacob, put it away brother"
and went screaming blinded by smoke and paranoia
and three swerves got us right
and we hugged the holy white line until twilight

And driving until the night again takes me foremast
and knows my secret fear in her *****
as the road turns into a lucid *** black and makes me dizzy
and every shadow is a moose and a wildcat and a billy goat
and some other car

and I find myself driving faster up this great slanderous waterfall until I meet eye
with another at a thousand feet horizontal

then two eyes

then a thousand wide-eyed peaks stretching faces upturned to the celestial black
with clouds laid flat as if some angel were sleeping ******* on a smokestack
and the mountains make themselves clear to me after waiting a lifetime for a glimpse
then they shy away behind some old lamppost and I don’t see them until tomorrow

and even tomorrow brings a greater distance with the sunlight dividing stone like 'The Ancient of Days'
and moving forward puts all into perspective

while false cabins give way
and the gas stations give way
and the last lamppost gives way
and its only distance now that will make you true
and make your peaks come alive

Like a bullrush, great grey slopes leap forth as if branded by fire
then the first peaks take me by surprise
and I’m told that these are nothing but children to their parents
and the roads curve into a gentle valley
and we’re in the feeding zone

behind the gates of some great geological zoo
watching these lumbering beasts
finishing up some great tribal *******
because tomorrow they will be shrunk
and tomorrow ever-after smaller

Nonetheless, breathless in turn I became
it began snowing and the pines took on a different shape
and the mountains became covered white
and great glaciers could be seen creeping
and tourists seen gawking at waterfalls and waterfowls
and fowl play between two stones a thousand miles high

climbing these Jasper slopes flying against wind and stone
and every creak lets out its gentle tone and soft moans
as these tyres rub flat against your back
your ancient skin your rock-hard bones

and this peak is that peak and it’s this one too
and that’s Temple, and that’s Whistler
and that’s Glasgow and that’s Whistler again
and those are the Three Sisters with ******* ablaze

and soft glowing haze your sun sets again among your peaks
and we wonder how all these caves formed
and marvelled at what the flood brought to your feet
as roads lay wasted by the roadside

in the epiphany of 3:00am realizing
that great Alta's straights and highway crossings
are formed in torturous mess from mines of 'Mt. Bleed'
and broken ribs and liver of crushed mountain passes
and the grey stones taxidermied and peeled off
and laid flat painted black and yellow;
the highways built from the insides
of the mountain shells

Who gave a “What now. New-Brunswick?”

and a “What now, Quebec, and Ontario, and Manitoba, and Saskatchewan";
**** fools clumsily dancing in the valleys; then the rolling hills; then the sea that was a lake
then the prairies and not yet the mountains;

running naked in formation with me at the lead
and running naked giving the finger to the moon
and the contrails, and every passing blur on the highway
dodging rocks, and sandbars
and the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Law
and holes dug-up by prairie dogs
and watching with no music
as the family caravans drove on by

but drove off laughing every time until two got anxious for bed and slowed behind
while the rambling Jacob and I had to wait in the half-moon spectacle
of a black-tongue asphalt side-road hacking darts and watching for grizzlies
for the other two to finish up with their birthday *** exploits
though it was nobodies birthday

and then a timezone was between us
 and they were in the distant future
and nobodies birthday was in an hour from now

then everything was good
and everyone was satiated
then everything was a different time again
and I was running on no sleep or a lot of it
leaping backward in time every so often
like gaining a new day but losing space on the surface of your eye

but I stared up through curtains of starlight to mother moon
and wondered if you also stared
and was dumbfounded by the majesty of it all

and only one Caribou was seen the entire trip
and only one live animal, and some forsaken deer
and only a snake or a lonesome caterpillar could be seen crossing such highway straights
but the water more refreshing and brighter than steel
and glittered as if it were hiding some celestial gem
and great ravines and valleys flowed between everything
and I saw in my own eye prehistoric beasts roaming catastrophe upon these plains
but the peaks grew ever higher and I left the ground behind
Jimmy Hegan Feb 2016
We shall see the desert as the rose,
Walking in the King's highway;
There"ll be singing where salvation goes,
Walking in the king's highway,

We shall see the glory of the Lord,
Walking in the king's highway,
And behold the beauty of His Word,
Walking in the king's highway,

There the rain shall come upon the ground,
Walking in the king's highway,
And the springs of water will be found,
Walking in the king's highway,

There no rav'nous beast shall make afraid,
Walking in the king's highway,
For the purified the way is made,
Walking in the king's highway,

No unclean thing shall pass o'er here,
Walking in the king's highway,
But the ransom'd ones without a fear,
Walking in the king's highway,
NARRATED BY JIMMY S HEGAN
tufa alvi May 2014
Livin' easy
Lovin' free
Season ticket on a one way ride
Askin' nothin'
Leave me be
Takin' everythin' in my stride
Don't need reason
Don't need rhyme
Ain't nothin' that I'd rather do
Goin' down
Party time
My friends are gonna be there too
I'm on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I'm on the highway to hell

No stop signs
Speed limit
Nobody's gonna slow me down
Like a wheel
Gonna spin it
Nobody's gonna mess me around
Hey satan
Payin' my dues
Playin' in a rockin' band
Hey mumma
Look at me
I'm on the way to the promised land
I'm on the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I'm on the highway to hell
Highway to hell
Don't stop me
APari Jul 2012
What is Life?

Life is getting out of bed tired this morning, snailing to the bathroom, and finding out that my sister has left the top of the toothpaste ***** again. Life is drinking orange juice with that toothpaste taste still in my mouth.
Life is driving to school and missing the right ramp to get off of the highway.
It is cussing loudly in an empty car.

Life is coasting down the highway in between two huge, Moses-parting-the-red-sea, concrete walls.

It is reminiscing about magnificent popsicles from the ice cream man.
Life is realizing how ***** the ice cream man’s van really was.
Life is being that one kid whose dad bought him a pink bike at a garage sale.
Life is losing the reader before the poem even began.

Life is “Santa clause is real but not in the way you thought he was.”
Life is always being too obvious or being inscrutable.
Life is having a correct answer on a test then changing it.

I look out the window and see the night sky —millions of blinking glass shards on black pavement.
Life is craving to drive on that endless milky road instead of the road you are driving on to get to your school at three o’clock in the morning.
Life is driving an extra ten minutes because you missed that exit on the highway.
Life is the High School Cafeteria.
Life is your best friend who stabs you in the back.
No it’s not, life is like not having any best friend in the first place but telling your parents you do.
Life is arriving at school and entering through a pre-opened window in the dark then climbing through the vents in order to break into the math office to steal the semester exam answers.
Life is stopping - and turning back at the last minute and driving home to probably fail the test and class the next day.
Life is the divorce rate in America.
Life is the same boring start of a line over and over again.
Life is people politely nodding and saying “Yah” even if they couldn’t understand what you said.
Life is teens throwing handfuls of coins at each other’s (parents’) cars for fun at the stop light before getting on to the highway.
Life is the beggar watching them from the side of the street in the cold.

Life is not noticing that there are a lot of cars on the highway at this time of night.
Life is driving home at four o’clock in the morning.
Life is imagining your warm bed while you drive.
Life is breathing more slowly.
Life is the mellow rhythm of the highway humming underneath your wheels.
The music rocks on “Life is life, na na na na na.”
Life is soul-stirring music making you tired.
Life is a small brook bubbling silently through some far away woods.
Life is closing your eyes while driving for only three seconds.

I **** my eyes open just as sheets of heat from the air conditioning cover my body.

Life is the confidence that you can stay awake with your eyes shut for longer this time.
It is closing your eyes for 6 seconds. Then another 6 seconds.
Life is the reader knowing that you will close your eyes for 6 seconds a third time. It is them reading on excitedly.
Life is splattered all over the side of the highway.
Then life is the traffic flying past the spotless side of the highway the next day.

“What is life?”

Life is the disappointing last line of a poem.
Mike Hauser May 2014
On Peyote Highway

The lanes go this way and that
Purple haze sunset to the left
The radio changes itself

On Peyote Highway

The flowers all try to hitch rides
With thumbs held high in the sky
While cactus ride by on their bikes

On Peyote Highway

Rainbow clouds speak in foreign tongue
The Koala Bear next to you ***** his thumb
The clown on the hood chews Juicy Fruit gum

On Peyote Highway

Skeletons rattle their bones in the back
Constantly asking are we there yet
As mimes mouth hello from the ditch

On Peyote Highway

You travel in both space and time
Take the pedal off the metal of your mind
Set the scenery to always rewind

On Peyote Highway
K G Aug 2015
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
But they push harder to be alive tommorow
They are usually criticized as insane boys
But they keep blowing side ways
Some of them are afraid of what might be insight while they're flyer than a flight
They love strolling on the highway
Highways highways
And they keep with passage ways
But they sometimes go where they want to
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
But they push harder to be alive tommorow
They are usually criticized as insane boys
Insane boys insane boys
They want to live together
They think life is just a lousy freeway
Freeway freeway
They get ridiculed into the gangway
Later on they try to break away
But they went down the wrong pathway
The think life is a freeway
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
They like walking on the highway
Highways highways
But will they survive tommorow?
Lucy Tonic Dec 2013
Well I’ve lived a life just like yours
But I made some choices that were poor
So instead of having it my way
I’m selling flowers on the highway
I have a home but it moves around a lot
Maybe my rent’s the one thing I forgot
If I had my choice I’d dream by day
But for now I’m selling flowers on the highway
And somewhere, somehow, a man in a suit is burning sage
And somewhere, somehow, a woman in a dress is filled with rage
I’d like to tell them all to be proud, witty and gay
But instead I’m selling flowers on the highway
And these roads have an ego, about the size of a town
And the faceless people driving by, to me they look like clowns
Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I just need to feel okay
But for now, I’m stuck here, selling flowers on the highway
I’ve got hyacinths, marigolds and roses
I’ve got one cure for my neurosis
So pass me the bottle, if you may
I’m stuck here selling flowers on the highway
I just want to walk like I usually do
Beneath the tall buildings on the avenue
But for now I’ll bask in the sun’s rays
I’m just a human being, selling flowers on the highway
Sjr1000 Mar 2014
Running down that Ecstasy Highway
as fast as my little legs can carry me
I'm blind as a bat with ear plugs
But we  were both
searching through this night time
skyway
reaching out to touch some one
and be touched.

All the guide books said this is the way,
turn right at Desire
turn left at Oblivion
and head on down
to the
neon lights, you can't miss it
as long as you are riding that
Ecstasy Highway.

I was told
some people find it at the end of a needle
others wait for the drop of the cards
and there are those who throw themselves
off that mountain side cliff looking for the winds to ride.
Some find it laying with you.

I've gone somewhere else I can't describe
made a wrong turn
thought it was a Transcendental highway
maybe
because I've been up and down,
made wrong turns right and left
made a wrong turn
at the corner of Sanctuary and Bliss.
I'd ask directions but there is not a soul around,
smacking my GPS
lost beyond words
with nothing familiar
in
neighborhoods looming
stark cracked out buildings
and
broken street lights
people with apocalyptic eyes
even the cops won't come down here any more
and the only help I've found
the only guide I have
is delusional and lost
though occasionally profound
dressed in piercings and tatoos
and she keeps yelling at me
something about going home to you.

Too tired to go on.

Had lost that bat back at the beginning of dawn
finally sat down at the coffee shop
at the corner
of
Love and Compassion
ordered up some hot self-acceptance
took a breath and looked around
still looking for the way back home.
I know it's just down the road
a stop light or so
maybe there's an on ramp
or a sign pointing out the way
to get back
on that
Ecstasy Highway.

I stopped at a gas station
talked to a guy
who told me lefts and rights
but my eye lids fluttered
fell asleep
right when he told me what I wanted to know
and when I opened my eyes
the station was closed
not a soul around
and I was running down
unfamiliar roads.

So if you hear a small lost voice
in the night
that's probably the sound of me
standing at the crossroads
of
Self-pity and Remorse
knocking at the Post Office
trying to mail these words
at a place that been long closed.
Please give me a hug or two
and send me on my way
if you give me any advice
I probably won't hear a word you say.
You see
I'm trying to make my way
back again
to that
Ecstasy Highway.
CH Gorrie Nov 2012
Reclining in their rocking chairs, the brothers Beau and Cletus gazed despondently out
Past the final farm toward the convergence of the worn highway
And the fritz horizon. Cows paused their chewing; an ashy sun
Obscured in incongruous fluffs of cloud; it grew
Greyishly chilly. "Shame the kids're movin'," Beau squeezed out before a deep belch. Cletus only
Mumbled, his voice lost in the light drizzle rapping on the milky sheet-plastic roof. The
          porch

Was unfurnished, save the chairs, one ashtray, and a novelty sign reading: "Get off my porch."
Cletus took a long, pensive drag off a cigarette before stubbing it out.
He coughed a raspy croak wetted with sixty-six years. Besides Cletus' sporadic coughs, the only
Distinguishable sound to be heard in Moody Creek wafted in from the highway:
Rattles of the day's final Spokane- or Boise-bound semi-trucks grew
Inaudible as Beau transiently  murmured, "Purtier than a string of fried trout, that there
          sun-

set." "Whaaa?" Cletus wheezed. "It's settin'," answered Beau, loosely gesturing at the sun.
Fractaled-orange-shafts webbing manifold shades of yellow – amber, belge, stil-de-grain – grew
Plumply stout upon the farmland, edged between properties and crumpled on the porch.
"I'll tell you what Beau – I'm glad they got out,"
Cletus uttered with assurance, his eyes scanning the reaches of light upon the highway.
Beau fixed his cap, musing over Cletus' words. He cleared his throat before beginning, "If
          only..."

Then stopped and itched his belly-button. Cletus turned to his brother. "I know one thang only
Beau: they'll do good in California. They'll be livin' high on the hog. Yer son n' my son
'll 'ave secure futures." Jack nodded somberly. He hated the highway.
He hated its ability to isolate everything. It had been his original revamp, the now-rickety porch,
His first project on his fixer-upper after marrying Dorothy West. They'd wed out
In his father's corn field; bought a house a mile or so down the road. Kids were born. Love
          grew,

And in its growing all things tangible and gorgeous – like tangrams piece together – grew:
The farm, the house, savings account and family. They ate hearty; drank canned beer only –
Living was smooth – but it changed when Dorothy took Little Dale and got out.
She wanted what the farm couldn't give or grow, leaving tiny Moody Creek with their son
As the last moon of May, 1955 went up. "*****!" Beau had yelled from the porch.
He'd woken to his Buick's rev and watched its taillights wane upon the
          highway.

And though he remarried, this was, in truth, mostly why Beau never squarely looked upon highway.
The light drizzle grew
Heavy, intensifying. "Gosh **** rain might near knock the coverin' off the porch!"
Hollered Beau. Cletus looked up and blew a cloud of thick grey smoke. "It's only
Rain Beau. No need gettin' ornery." That morning they'd seen off their youngest sons as the sun
Was just rising. One left to work for a dairy ******* in The Valley, the other went to figure
          out

Himself and his career. The porch shuddered. Beau absent-mindedly repeated "If only..."
Daylight died; black inked upon the highway. Cletus lit a new cigarette. Moody Creek grew
Dense, compacted by the darkness. The sun inched away. Cletus hacked and put his cigarette
          out.
This is a sestina. The six end words of the the six lines of the first stanza are repeated in different orders within the following five stanzas. It is all followed by a three line envoy containing all six words.
christhamF Oct 2009
Highway Heart
Mobile Replacement Specialists,
Exchange and Mart
‘Phone for personal quote.

Highway Heart
Can offer you Life,
By renewing That Part
With a razor sharp Knife.

Highway Heart
Buy and Sell,
For the sake of Art
Sometimes never tell.

Highway Heart
When you begin to Fade,
We’ll give you a new Start
Never mind who paid.
Robert Guerrero Nov 2012
I walked this road for so long
It's been 16 years
Since I have rested
Feels like I've been tested
For all these years
This highway I walk
Has many shadows
Too many twist and turns
Every car that passes by
Just zooms right on by
As vultures stalk above
I grow weary
Would it be easier to end my life
Or just see if this road
Is a dead end highway
Every step is impossible
Every second is unbearable
I walk carrying the tools
To finish what this highway started
I walk and walk
Passed graves
Homeless people begging for money
Passed lovers kissing
Passed newlyweds
Passed mattress stores
And I know I walk this highway alone
No one to hold my hand
No one to stop my feet
No one
Not a soul
Not a heart
Nothing to save me
Before I create the end
To this god forsaken highway
I will force myself
To meet the end
Jimmy Hegan Sep 2015
Highway runs with small and big vehicles
Highway makes no differences in vehicles
Every vehicles can run on it,but human kinds that makes differences.
Human that makes restrictions and rules
They make VIP route for VIP personal and
Common route for common personal
But Highway is for everybody where You run fast and slow,save and die.
Highway that runs night and day with every kind of vehicles carrying VIP and Common personal.
Highway is better than humans beings which makes no differences.
Dolly Balou Oct 2017
They say life is a highway, I say it’s a battle.
I love to drive yet not one ounce of my being wishes to drive upon this highway any longer.
Battles tend to be fought with an army, yet here I stand alone.
Why do they force their essence into my being.
Why do they require physicality from me.
This is not something I wish to give.
Leave me be, and my body too.
The last thing I want is to smell your scent in through my skin.
I do not wish to taste the bitterness of your personality that you feel so kindly to force me to do.
If you want me to drive, let me drive.
But I refuse to drive anywhere near the highway which you built.
That highway is not made for my kind.
That highway is what turns beautiful souls into broken ones.
The filth in my bones is seeping out, overflowing into the street.
I try to wash this filth away.
Eye’s closed.
I do not wish to see this filth.
Just let it be gone already.
I am sick of fighting this battle.
I have had enough of fighting.
You have succeeding in consuming my entire being with the filth you forced upon me.
Buried deep.
So deep.
I never knew the deepness of myself, let alone the depths of my despair.
I never chose this.
Why should I have to live this.
Why should I have to keep my head up and carry on.
How does your head hang?
Between the ties of a noose?
It should.
Worthless.
Powerless.
Disgusting.
Damaged.
Numb.
That is what I feel.
Yet in reality it is what you are.
I know you don’t have power over me.
All this time I have been fighting.
This battle does not deserve to be fought.
You cannot hurt me.
I refuse to let the gravel of your highway slow me down or make me crash.
I will not crash.
Not for you, not for anyone.
It is my time to grasp the wheel.
I control my own vehicle, not you.
I will not allow you to climb into the driver’s seat.
You will not place your hands on, or anywhere near, my steering wheel.
The vehicle may seem broken, but it is not.
It just needed some TLC.
Push me again, I dare you.
Watch yourself be ran the **** over.
I will not wait.
I will not spare you.
A Thomas Hawkins Aug 2010
There's a reason there's a path outside your door
that leads to a road
that leads to an interstate,
that leads to an airport.

And there's a reason that planes fly from that airport
to one near here.

Same reason that airport has a road
that leads to a highway
a highway that they are repairing as we speak
that leads to my town
to a path that leads to my door

And its not just coincidence.

Any more than its coincidence that you are reading this.
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
Matt Miller Feb 2010
Highway 74, a straight drive.
Nothing to look at but trees and fields,
cars and asphalt, gray and black.
Decrepit barns dot the highway
all across this ******* state.
I am getting closer.

The meter on the dashboard drawing closer
to empty, I can finish the drive.
Heavy static coming through the solid-state
speakers, more fields.
At least I’m off the highway.
Winding roads, tires black.

Sky turning blue, purple, then black.
The road and I have become closer.
601, I cross over the two-lane highway
and continue the drive.
Emptiness from the autumn harvest, barren fields.
Sometimes I love this state.

Closing in on the state
border, headlights piercing through the black,
can’t see the fields.
Pedal steady at 55, all the time coming closer,
four hours since the start of this drive.
The road rises and falls, breathing the contours of the land, a living highway.

Into the driveway, far from the highway,
another mile, another state.
Physical exhaustion, no mental drive.
Into the tungsten light, out of the black.
This place makes me feel closer
to my roots, the countryside and the fields.

Tomorrow, I’ll see the same fields
I saw as a child. The same highway,
the one that brings me closer,
the one that leads out of this state.
Sleep is black.
Dream of the drive.
Austin Mosher Apr 2013
I’m looking for a place
I’ll go a thousand ways
With you by my side
Beyond the lost highway

The wolves still cry at night
Up at the moon so bright
They conduct our trail
Beyond the lost highway

We travel on by foot
Just because we could
Who knows what we’ll find
On this long lost highway

We are not even sore
When we find that old door
Our journey won’t end
Beyond this lost highway

What is behind the door?
You wonder and implore
Take your own path down
Beyond the lost highway
Lotus Oct 2013
It was night
There were no clouds in the sky,
Just stars in the black sea.
Noise spilled through the doors of the bar.
Outside the Brass Rail people with alcohol in their system
And the ***** in their lungs crowd the 49 highway.
In the middle of the road,
Where the white and yellow lines run parallel,
A wild smiling girl sets the triangle of bowling pins.
A ways down the highway line, a smiling man with blond dreadlocks
Swings his arms back and forth, ready to threw the ball.
The wild girl moves, the man throws his ball, the crowd cheers, trucks honk,
And the pins are hit!
Everyone jumps in the air, everyone claps and whistles,
And the game starts over again.
Bowling on highway 49 in North San Juan, California.
These wild free spirits are my friends.
preservationman Feb 2016
The story of two different highway drives
But it all amounts to a strive
The event is a Greyhound male bus Operator named Jeff
The Female Trucker being Jennifer
It was the California Highway 101
Just around the bend
Suddenly the bend came a when
The Female Trucker broke down on the side of the road
Then there was a behold, Greyhound Bus Operator Jeff pulled his bus right behind the Female Trucker’s trailer
Jeff approached Jennifer and asked, “Do you need some help?”
At first, Jennifer seemed skeptical that a Greyhound bus would stop on the side of the road to help somebody else in need
But the question became an answer in proceed
Now mine you, there were Greyhound bus passengers aboard, but the bus schedule was behind
Will this put Jeff in a bind?
Jennifer responded in an abrupt matter
But you will be surprised in what happened after
Jeff knew exactly what was wrong with the truck
After all, he once drove a truck before coming to Greyhound and was once a mechanic before that
In Jennifer’s mind, Jeff and the Greyhound bus having all the right tools
But Jen was no fool
Jen thanks and kissed Jeff on the cheek
The truck was fixed and ready in being complete
The Greyhound bus passenger’s all applauded, and stated, “Forget the Greyhound ride as we all just witnessed our own live movie love stride”
Jen then drove off onto highway 101
Jeff pulled off onto the highway informing the passengers that next stop will be Los Angeles, the final stop
The highway bringing maybe two hearts together
Yet it is a secret between the two
Now don’t look further into
This is not for us to pursue
As a finale, sometimes this is what love can do.
Rolling down St. John's Heritage Highway
after Sean, my grandson's birthday party
I belt out my pioneer song with vigor
echoing across the vast beauty,
wide open, sacred spaces
pristine vistas

Norman Rockwell cows grazing
in bygone pastures happily
moo along

Driving past the yellow deer crossing sign
Florida woodlands giddyap near the edge of the road
long brown antlers prancing to
a timeless rhythm

I hope and pray that I can somehow
kindle a spark of appreciation
in my niece and grandsons
so that they may behold
the baffling greatness
and mystery that is our universe

These young'uns are mighty attached to the
virtual reality, world and landscape
of computer technology

A sprinkling of cowboy stars flash
an omnipresent wink
Sunset bonfire explodes across
the frontier horizon

Turning the corner onto Emerson Drive
smoldering scarlet orange embers
reflecting lights
shoot fireworks, launch rockets
through an ever expanding field of vision
I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.
09/07/12




A personal statement.
i'm a long long way from somewhere
but i guess i'm doing fine
There's no one here beside me
The only voice I hear is mine
I'm out here on the highway
Yesterday, was so sublime
You said you  didn't love me
But I guess I'm doing fine

I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOIN' NOWHERE
AND I'M MAKING READ GOOD TIME
I'VE GOT NO REAL DIRECTION
THIS IS GONNA TAKE SOME TIME
I'M SURE IT'S FOR THE BETTER
TO LEAVE THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOING NOWHERE, MAKING TIME

I should have seen it coming
but it hit me from the blue
I put all I had inside
Into me and you
I was in the middle of the hurricane
Doing what it is I do
I don't believe the storm that hit
was you

I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOIN' NOWHERE
AND I'M MAKING READ GOOD TIME
I'VE GOT NO REAL DIRECTION
I'M JUST  GONNA TAKE SOME TIME
I'M SURE IT'S FOR THE BETTER
TO LEAVE THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOING NOWHERE, MAKING TIME

Yesterday I had the world, today the world has me
It's time to hit the road and start to see.....

I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOIN' NOWHERE
AND I'M MAKING READ GOOD TIME
I'VE GOT NO REAL DIRECTION
I'M   GONNA TAKE SOME TIME
I'M SURE IT'S FOR THE BETTER
TO LEAVE THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY GOING NOWHERE, MAKING TIME
Laiken Jul 2011
She had blurry grey eyes
and hair that tangled like vines.
In a house by a highway.

The house was old
with red shutters
that never shut anymore.

She pulled on her hat.
Her shoes were stained black.
And she left the house by a highway.

The sky was cloudy.
The side walk was wet.
It was a easy walk to the drug store.

The drug store has been there
for about twenty five years.
A ten minute walk from a house
by a highway.

She lays a five on the counter.
A coffee in one hand.
She leaves and makes her way to a bridge.

The guard rails were cold
as she leans over to get a view
of the water that surrounds her.

A house by a high way
stands there alone.
Waiting for the girl with grey eyes to get back.

The girl takes out a letter.
Flips it around in her hands.
She lets out a sigh,
then let’s the letter fly.

She watches it floats into the water.
A minute more she stays
takes a sip of coffee and listens
to the bird song she has been missing
for so many years.

She closes her eyes
leaves the bridge and is on her way.
Back to a house by a highway.
Driving up the highway
When I saw it in the mist
Like a pure and tender ******
Still waiting to be kissed
A village all forgotten
Somehow time had missed
You could see it from the highway
slightly hazy in the mist

Had time forgotten this poor place
Left in limbo for all days
Was it just a trick of light and sun
Manufactured through the haze
Were the folks here ****** to stay
Out of reach but in our gaze
Or were they truly here by choice
Living old, forgotten ways

Brigadoon did spring to mind
but, in truth I thought this good
Be something better than that curse
This village protected by the wood
I pulled on to the shoulder
And tried to see as best I could
This simple town or vision
That had not aged as it should

I saw no point of entry
No way to get there from my place
It was perfect, untouched, special
A village bathed in grace
Folks kept driving past me
Up the highway at such pace
They would never see this village
In the mist as fine as lace

The village may be magic
It may be something in between
In truth all I can tell you
What I saw, not what I mean
It's a village, plain and simple
in the woods, all shades of green
Un-kissed, and yet so perfect
stuck in stasis, in between
Lillie Williams Jul 2016
I walked life highway
A long time ago
Reaching for the window,
Walking through the door
On my journey through life
I met a strong man
None have I seen before
Traveling through the land.

On my way through life
I met Mr. Pain
He changed my whole life;
It would never be the same.

In the middle part of my life
I found Mrs. Good,
She taught me the
Better part of life;
She did what she could.
Mr. Failure was waiting,
For me to slip and fall,
He left me with nothing,
He took it all.

I found myself crying
As I stood in the rain,
Smiling at me on my way down,
Stood Mr. Pain.
Life’s highway took me
Down a dark piece of land
When I thought
I could not make it;
I saw this strong man

He said failure will take it all,
And leave you with pain;
Good overcome it
And wash away the rain.
At the end of life highway
I could plainly see,
That the strong person by my side;
Was always me.
Sometimes we think that we are not strong, and unable to complete the task, but if we keep striving we will eventually find the inner most strength that we need to reach the top.
I'm on the highway to Know where
First class ticket in my pocket
And I'm going to go there
Absolutely nowhere

So if you need me
That's where you'll find me
Letting sadness take the lead
Letting fear take the road
With my hand on the blade
Fingers down my throat
Taking the long way
*On the highway to Know where
Äŧül Jul 2013
Whenever I get on the NH1 Grand Trunk Road,
I feel the pride of it being the oldest highway,
Built even before the documentation period.

King Ashoka got it built in the 3rd century B.C.,
Emperor Sher Shah got it repaired in the 17'th,
The British Company utilized it in 1857 1st war.

It was then gotten repaired only a bit by them,
Repairing such a long highway isn't easy at all,
It runs from Kabul up to Kolkata and to Dhaka.
This Highway has a long-long-long history and is among the topmost contenders for the title of the longest highway in the world spanning along most number of nations along other highways of the world.

My HP Poem #357
©Atul Kaushal
"Hello this is the Plum Wood Police Department.  How may I help you?"

"I'm calling because there is a dead woman in the woods by highway 77.  She has no face or eyes."

"Who am I'm speaking with?"

"This is the killer.  I cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with me.  That way I can always look her in the face.  **** the world everybody killer."

"Sir can you tell me why you did this?  **** he ended his call."

Plum Wood was a small city with a low crime rate.  When officer Daniel received a call from a killer telling him there was a dead woman in the woods by highway 77 it was surprising.  Officer Daniel placed the phone back on receiver and took a deep breath.
He slowly exhaled and then called all aviable officers and Detective Thomas.
"Hello Detective Thomas this is officer Daniel.  I just got a call from a man telling me there was a dead body in the woods by highway 77.  He said he was the killer and that he cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with him.  That way he can always look her in the face.  I tried to get his name and to tell me why he did this but he ended his call.  I think he was using a cellphone."

Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Horror, scary,
Joseph Loggi Jun 2017
October 14th
-2005-

When is October,
With the leaves of red,
With the crisp cold wind
Blowing to the west.
There she sits and waits,
For the boy with the red Chevrolet.
It is eight o five,
He is five minutes late.
But she occupies herself
With the crumbling pastry
On her tiny plate.
He pulls up outside,
And she looks and waves,
With a smile she cannot hide.
It is nine o five.
It is time to go.
She had a great time, he knows.

It is November,
The pine is yellow,
As they walk down the lane.
He holds her slim hand,
And she laughs again
To a joke she would never tell
To any of her friends.
As they walk down the lane,
They talk about a future
They might never attain.
But here they are walking,
Down a yellowing park lane
With their hands linked together,
Waiting for time to go away.
There is a park bench,
Aside a small lake
With red and brown shapes
Just drifting upon
The placid landscape.
He motions to her
To come and sit with him
And take it all in:
This favorable day.
But she thinks of the time,
The job she has at five,
And she tells him, "let's go."
He looks at her and smiles,
Wishing time would go away
As they walked together,
towards the red Chevrolet

Here is December,
The leaves have lost their ember,
As she sits drinking coffee
By her apartment's window.
she is clad in comfort
Snug in a blanket
From her bed she had to unearth.
She blows her hot breath
Upon the chilled window pane,
And draws shapes, words, names
Upon the fogged window frame.
Finally she traces a heart,
With two initials
Separated by a plus sign.
She smiles at her art,
And the heart she has made,
And wishes it would not clear away.
But something catches her eye,
Through the unfogged heart lines,
A red Chevrolet parked
On the side of the street lane.
There is a knock on the door.
She gets up and tidies her space,
She looks in the mirror
And pouts about not having
Makeup on her face.
She goes to the door,
Takes a breath and opens
It to a familiar form.
He has flowers in a vase,
That has an etched heart, with her name

-2006-

It is January,
a month of frigidness,
but of drunken merry.
Here they survived
for only a time ago,
and the seasons
change with heavy snow.
They do not talk for a time,
But each of them wonder
If it is all fine.
Things return, as you know
A car running the highway,
And a girl living alone.
Oh that message said,
“I can’t wait to see you again.”
To her it was a punch,
To him it was a friend.
But their bonds to each other
They were only flailed,
But the cut would not make an end.
So this passage stayed this way,
He would drive a car,
She would look away.
But its hard not to see
A bright red Chevrolet.
So with a phone call,
at the crack of dawn.
A girl fell in love,
Which was all wrong.
The other would come,
And it will not be long.

Love in February,
pastel hearts and a chocolate box.
Bouquets, and fancy gin
All the flattery would begin.
Some weekends at the movies,
Some nights meeting her friends.
Their life started to return,
But what from it could she earn?
Some nice nights in candle light,
A stuffed animal from a claw,
But what did it mean at all?
“Yes, I’m free at eight.
Be on time you're always late.”
“Oh sure! I love to catch up.”
“Oh yeah, remember our lake?”
“Yes the one with all the ducks.”
“Yes that is the place, right?”
“Yeah I’ll see you there tonight?”
“I can’t wait at all,
I haven't seen you for so long.”
Some things are sacred,
When they are not shared.
But really this new girl,
Was not at all new.
She was the first one
And this other girl
Was a replacement
That he met in the fall.

Then walked in March
With his hands and loud clatter,
But he could not shake
The peace that had begun.
Two girls, different lives,
But they were both the same.
Same long flaxen hair,
That drifted below their backs.
same smile and loving stare,
But the only difference
Was their loving eyes.
The girl from the fall,
Had brown eyes, a soft voice,
and a spirit so gentle.
The girl from before,
had blue eyes and a voice
of loud summer laughter
who lived with a sense of death.
Blue eyes lived on the edge,
Brown eyes lived on the current.
But both girls would be the same,
nights wiping mascara,
Similar nights at the parlor.
Both were each others’ mirror
But none would take the curtain,
and reveal what was hidden.
He would not worry,
As he drove down the highway.
No grey doubt ever minded him
As he rode his red Chevrolet.
To him, it was a game.

Then April rain fell.
Can you even tell
What were the feelings
That were felt when she saw
The two plane tickets?
She was taken aback,
She had never left
The city she lived in,
And she rushed at him
With clutching arms and happy grin.
No words would describe
what she felt within.
The old girl had gone
to Europe for a trip,
Leaving him with one set of lips.
So he thought to himself,
a trip away would be good.
He would spend some time
With the girl he loved.
He would do whatever he could.
So at an airport,
at a quarter to nine,
The two of them talked
And everything was fine.
She would joke with him
That he was actually on time,
And he would make a face
To resent the sense of disgrace.
But here he was thinking,
Of the girl in another place.

Blooming flowers in May,
Were her favorite sight.
The reds, blues and pinks
were among spring’s delight.
She enjoyed the ducks on the lake.
This was her first time
Ever seeing these mallards
Bask and splash their heads.
He was on the other side
On a call he could not ignore.
Things started to slip with him.
She would call and he would say,
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
She asked him if he wanted
To meet her family.
“I’m sorry, I’m busy that day.”
But here she saw this sight,
A boy across the lake she liked.
She did not know who
gave him an “urgent” ring,
But he was laughing
At this emergency.
He seemed so distant this May,
But he was not far away.
She could go up and walk to him,
But if she dared cross
This great immense strait,
She could effortlessly reach midway.
But her balance would falter
Because he would not cross for her.
So she would sink underneath.

Runaway in June,
With flaxen hair flowing
With wind blowing down the highway
In that red Chevrolet.
Tan skin and sunglasses on,
These were the parts she enjoyed,
All summer long.
Although they neared a place,
Here time slowed and she could stop space.
She would turn up that song
And sing each lyric she liked,
and then toss it to him
as she passed him the mic.
All their troubles in May
Seemed to wither away,
as the hot air curled
each locket of hair.
Planes streaked up in the sky
As birds kited by.
The greenery of the trees
Flowed with life effortlessly:
Waving a sort of fresh hello
As the asphalt steamed
a cool dew of tomorrow.
They approached the exit,
With the harsh winding twist
That they would slow down and glide.
The sun streaming up in the sky,
Her happy gentle eyes.
He had another date at five.

Pink sky in July,
and a black aqua night
With night bugs buzzing
and the firefly light.
then on some warm nights
The sky filled with red, blue and white,
As fireworks attempted
to journey so high,
Until they bursted
And died in the cold atmosphere.
When it was past dusk
And the time settled on twilight,
The great blue vault would open up,
And reveal the infinite.
Stars twinkled, and flew
Against the nothingness
Hopping to find a purpose
For their brief existence.
The girl from the fall
Believed she had some worth,
That a creator put people
that she was meant to meet
Upon this sad Earth.
The girl from before
Did not know she encroached
On a love so new,
Nor did the girl from fall
know she was doing that too.
He would say “I love you.”
Which to her it was sweet.
But “you” can be plural.

They met in August,
August the tenth to be exact.
They knew each other
Ever since junior high,
But neither mustered the courage
To come up and say hi.
She went off to college,
He went away too,
But they met in a coffee shop
In the middle of June.
They soon started to talk,
and soon a new love grew.
This was the girl from before,
A clever girl who loved books
And a long afternoon snore.
He was a year older,
and he graduated a year ago.
She trusted him so much.
He bought her flowers,
He would spend hours with her,
Walking to the edge of nowhere,
And slowly journeying back.
But for some reason
Something came undone.
She wondered as she walked
Down upon the gray sidewalk.
Not watching or minding her step,
As she bumped into the girl
Walking to her left.
A brown eyed girl with flaxen hair,
Both unaware of a love they share.

A new friend in September,
She had began to know well.
Last August they collided,
Laughed at each others’ mistake,
and then chatted as if they knew
Each other for a longer time
than is accustomed to new friends.
They sometimes saw each other
While walking on the sidewalk.
Sometimes they smiled to chat,
And sometimes they waved
And never looked back.
Little by little they came through,
They talked, and they laughed
About anything old and new.
But soon they started to fade too.
The girl from before,
Started to work at night
And would not leave her apartment,
Until an hour after
The girl from the Fall left hers.
Maybe she was not meant to know,
Perhaps fate decided
That the truth would never come
If they never collided.
So things continued this way,
Until they met again one day.
They laughed and said they should catch up.
She got her number,
Next month it went under.

When is October?
Where she cried her eyes.
When in October,
Did she find out his lies?
She was someplace away,
Cruising down the highway.
It was at a party,
from a girl she would never know,
Who told her about the girl
That they both came to know,
Who had a boyfriend
That was so very sweet,
and a picture of them
That put her heart in her teeth.

October 14th
-2006-
9:14 pm

An hour does seem so long.
She asked him if she could
Borrow his red Chevrolet,
Because she had no other way.
It was late, and then came the rain
As she sped down the highway.
She left him a message,
that he did not understand:
“I’m coming to see you.”
As the car furiously ran.
The wind whipping, the clouds crying,
It was not safe the speed she went
In that red Chevrolet
Running down that highway.
She wanted to scream,
She wanted to fade away.
But time was there edging her so,
As she counted the minutes
For the amount of time
It would take to get there.
She would have to tell
The girl she began
To know so well as a friend.
But this had to come to an end.
She neared the exit
That had the sharp twist,
She tried to slow to a glide,
But the water kept up the stride.
And suddenly time slowed
As the car leapt off the road.

October 14th
-2006-
9:44 pm

Everything floated,
The dust, the old receipts
As she gripped the leather seat.
She just hit the guard rail right,
As the car flipped in the night.
glitter headlight shards,
And red sirens blurring,
Why was she in such a hurry?
One flip, then came two,
The mechanical acrobat
Performing a stunt
That was doomed to fail.
She counted the minutes,
That she still had left,
As her broken head
Leaked her thoughts upon the dash.
The memories slipped out:
The dates by the lake,
The days in the red Chevrolet,
and the girl who bumped
Into her on the sidewalk.
Sirens blurring, people looking,
at the side of the road.
A stretcher was coming,
her body they were carrying;
Pale, limp, and bleeding.
When is October?
Where she took a drive.
When in October,
She died.

October 14th
-2006-
10:14 pm
The line count is significant.
alex Oct 2017
and i’d like for it to sound poetic.
poetic and sad
“the car smelled of
cigarette smoke
as we swerved
on an empty highway
waiting for the sun
to catch up”
nah.
neither of us smokes
and you didn’t swerve
and the highway wasn’t empty
and it was only
eleven p.m.
we weren’t running from the sun
i’d like to say
we were chasing it
but baby when
have we ever done something
so brave?
nah.
it would even be poetic
to admit that we’re cowards
but we aren’t those either
we’re just ****** people
you know?
that’s all we are
that’s all anyone is
driving on a highway at eleven p.m.
with other people
who are just people
and ****
if that isn’t the most poetic
and sad ****
that i’ve heard all day.
ha.
turns out the highway
was empty
after all.
He says, "How many trucks will wreck
On that one stinkin' highway?"
"Many more," I said, "and then the world will end
And no more trucks will wreck on that highway."
Lydia Apr 2016
God was dead, and we killed him
We hit Him with our flashy cars,
We always imagined crashing
We breathed the devil in like rolled down windows on the highway,
Driving fast
Driving too fast
All of the times we imagined crashing those cars
Those cars we didn't own
The highways that our blood has traveled
Heart rates like revolutions of the tires
Kissing like the first high on *******
We stopped so suddenly...
Sin and heart break and youth were our excuses
You were my excuse

I felt drunk just for knowing you,
I felt drunk just with the windows down
I felt everything and nothing all together like a symphony
I felt God underneath my tires
I felt closure, I felt ending
Rebirth felt like a free fall
The devil felt like fantasy and solid ground
You felt like LSD and speeding
And I felt like crashing with the waves at the light house
And then just crashing
I felt myself being knocked out so
I whispered your name like one last puff of cigarette smoke
I tried to understand why the last cloud wasn't as powerful as the first
I wondered if God would be forgiving because I made a mistake
You were a mistake
And God was a mistake under our tires
We went too fast down that road

God was laced through the love letters we ripped up and burned
Life itself looked like fire
We showered in kerosene and played with matches
Then the friction of our tires,
We spun them fast enough to smooth the road underneath us
No one was looking at the road ahead

God made more sense as part of the highway
All of our midnight prayers had gone unanswered
He ignored every painful beg for salvation
He ignored broken bones and shattered souls
We had to sweep up the pieces by ourselves
The road fed us like stray dogs in the alleyway,
Took our spirits and poured them out for us like moonlight
We hit God at 100 miles an hour on that stretch of freedom
He felt like a wall-
Like our bodies were being crushed and our lives were over
He felt like losing everything in less than a second-
But we kept right on going down that highway
We went too fast down that road.
Much more metaphorical than my usual style, but I love it. Please comment :)
Liz McLaughlin Aug 2015
Dawn breaks like an egg on the highway,
Light spilling through the trees to rest on the blue
bruised half-moons beneath her eyes. She keeps
her foot against the pedal, one hand in the fold
of her jacket pocket. Her cell phone buzzes, her gut
twists, and his voice echoes: “a house, a yard, maybe a dog”

The phone cracks against the side door, falling by dog-
-eared roadmaps. Drowning the call with the roar of the highway,
she wants for inner concrete: decisively gutting
the crust of the earth in a permanent band. But as the sky swallows more blue,
sun exposes the worry-soaked fold
lines where her fingers met her knuckles, empty of the ring he kept

hidden for three months in a bran cereal box. He knew she kept
to a breakfast of day-old Chinese food instead, doggedly
digging in matte white boxes. His laughter lines peeked over the centerfold
of the Sunday newspaper, as she surfaced from digital superhighways
with the next crossword line: scrawled in bleeding ink by her blue
tinged fingers. She supposed that morning he finally found the guts.

His words fell smooth, easy on the first swallow but her gut
anguished at their weight, her insides better kept
to the easy promises, the favor-making, secret-keeping, dog-
walking kind she could shrug to. The something old, new, borrowed, blue
demanded will, boxed and taped and wrapped in the folds
of white tissue paper. She hit the highway

6 hours ago, the ring in her jacket pocket, jumping with NY State Highway
55 as it bent toward a familiar exit. Memories: her mother gutting
duck with chicken bone scissors. The clean press of folded
bed linens, aired out in the oak-thick yards of Poughkeep-
-sie. Her car idled outside the colonial, the shutters still blue.
A black lab lay sleeping on the steps: “a house, a yard, maybe a dog”

Her phone shuddered on the floor and the dog
barked. She set her bald tires rolling again to the highway,
her thoughts still of the egg-yolk kitchen against her father’s dirt-caked boots, his blue
collar sensibilities, and the contented swell of his gut.
He was of similar flex and shrug as she, but never went a day without keeping
a family photo tucked into his front pocket fold.

Her folded fingers unfurled in her own pocket, slow, like growing Kentucky bluegrass.
Playing with the ring, she felt in her gut a warm peace—a house, a yard, a dog—
She worked the band round the knuckle-crease as tires spun, down the highway and out Poughkeepsie.
Michael Hoffman Oct 2012
Zeus had plastic surgery,
his fingertips shaved off
so he would not leave prints
when he committed
his archetypal crimes.

He changed his name to Saturn
then to Cronos
then to Albatross Von Mariner,
all this subterfuge
just to disquise the fact
that he goes borderline ballistic
when he doesn't get his way.

He pulled Icarus out of the sky,
wounded Prometheus’ side,
left Sisyphus on a steep lonely mountain,
dared Demeter to save her daughter,
yet these souls persist
in mnemonic literary defiance
of a single fact…

No god is greater than you,
the karma jury has come in
and Zeus is sentenced
to five years of community service
on Interstate Highway 5.

He will wear a yellow clown suit
with a red rubber nose
and floppy green shoes
with a fast food tray hanging from his neck
and he will walk in traffic snarls
stopping at every car
to clean the windows
to sell hotdogs
with purple relish and black mustard
wrapped in grey buns
as unappetizing and pathetic
as the lies
he has told us about ourselves
for so long.
Have to give huge credit to Dr. Mario Martinez (Mind-Body Code) for his inspiring teaching on archetypal wounds.
DubJDaddy Oct 2015
by Sevin*


          I'm on a highway to heaven               but I'm stuck in hell
          So I lie there and cry away my essence, til I'm just a shell

I'm worn down and poured out, just a empty cup  
A sick man in quick sand, I'm simply stuck
               I'm feeling so small. Would it be wrong Yall ?
               To put this pistol on speed dial and make this dome call
Why can't I get a grip on my mind
I'm feeling ****** on and ******* and it's all the time
               I've lost pretty much everything a man can lose
               I've been through wars you wouldn't even put a cannon through
All this agonies enough to break a man in two
His panic room is damaged plus, he's manic too
              His soul is famished, no one handed him a can of stew
              He's allergic to beans, they gave him Spanish food
It's like life doesn't like him, it does it just to spite him
Wish I could take back my past like a busted item
              Right now I want to do anything but exists  
              Cause if I ain't in hell, tell me what is this

        I'm on a highway to heaven                but I'm stuck in hell
        So I lie there and cry away my essence, til I'm just a shell

Lost Money, lost friends even lost brothers
Lost my kids, cold heart no soft cover
              Lost love from my wife, gotta ball further
              Guess the loss of our faith made us all suffer
I talk to God, I know He's still with me
If he's hear I wonder if he'd sip this beer with me
              I don't even doubt, he'd shed a tear with me
              He knows my Bro ain't getting out till he's near 50
Sometimes I feel I'm wait'n on the same fate
He caught hell, I'm fishing with the same bait
             Get a job? I don't know them tactics
             Jump through hoops? Naw, I don't know gymnastics
I'm so tired of the madness
I know I be trip'n when I'm flip'n out, wilin' like a savage
            Life keeps piling on the sadness
            I'll never forget how it looked, when my homie was smiling in his casket

        I'm on a highway to heaven                but I'm stuck in hell
        So I lie there and cry away my essence, til I'm just a shell
This is from one of my favorite artists
He's been through a lot of pain but still manages to find his strength from our Heavenly Father.
https://m.youtube.com/channel/UC1Do81JVwPaxfWhu68IbDtg or
hogmob.com
A highway is a path like any other
Don't you know?
A path that you can share with another
Down the road
I will share my path as a highway
For the many
I will share my poems because I think that
I am ready
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
Slept in and saw the moon fall asleep
Dead motor rising underneath my ***** sheets
Camped out for days to see a love of mine
But she met a man, now I'm trying to **** some time
I feel like a ghost on highway 5

Caught dead with my spirit in my hand
Claim your prize when I help you understand
You think of love but I think of fun and games
Regrettable nights with moon howled names
I feel like a ghost in your brain

Burnt out exhausted with roads in my eyes
Fought for once but now I'm despised
I want to drive until my engine starts to rust
Until the memories I had turn to ******* dust
I feel like the ghost of teenage lust

Improper sayings that sting under the skin
Emotions like to implode you from within
Have you seen my head, all lit up with desire?
But you were the one to light it on fire
I feel like a ghost too dead to be tired
Sarah Apr 2013
I see it for just a moment
A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt

This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway
A raccoon? No. Too small.
A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?

That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays
Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place
Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim
Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape?
Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?

What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels?
He must know the identity of his victim
He must feel the agony of guilt
Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?

Perhaps Road-**** animals haunt their vehicle killers
Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface
Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands
Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places

After all
Justice must be had in one way or another
For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway

— The End —