sending you the wind in my hair, and highways
lit up so bright at night that you feel like a movie
star, and you gotta wear your cheap shades
at midnight just to get through Circus Ville
machine dreams, big rigs, perfect coffee hot
& fresh, god bless truck stops,
buy a fluffy key chain,
three pounds beef jerky, ride all night
out into the hand-painted desert
where you know you don't belong
when the rocks turn into freighters & sail over you
like pirate schooners in the coming dawn,
& the price of your awe is more than you can afford
so you laugh, step ******* the gas, turn it up
dylan rasps out some ****** tempest tunes
all you can think of is how pure this air
he's singing about scarlet town, where you
were born, and you try to understand, but
feel it instead
because there is where you were born
listening for twining leaf & thorn
casting out for clues, in the blue vastness
of his voice in your husband's old bmw
racing through towns to nowhere
listening, breathing, playing a few rounds
of some game inside your hollow point head
before the sun comes back to the huge cacti
eats your eyes, swallows this plain
we love the feel of highway beneath us
wind everywhere, touching us in places
we need to feel something
all-american something about the car
indulgent as some old rock song
I still love, like my sharona, I am
helpless
hopeful
driving
no resist in me for you,
pulls me in every time
road and wind and that
beat
let's g-go, speeding
my lovely engine,
my sweet machine
stutter it to me
car shaking
shudders
my *****
336 miles to go
tonight
time to
ride
~a~
this is a trip I made over eight years ago, alone, first time driving a BMW, to meet my husband at a fancy conference, on a whim, and it was thrilling to drive that car, on those highways, so much so that I didn't want to stop, but just keep driving. . . . .
