The highway is closed, on fire, and the wind is blowing like the world is coming to an end. I guess I could go to sleep. It’s been a while since I’ve slept. Maybe even dream. Of calm oceans and extinct volcanoes and quiet helicopters. Of a white house on a green cliff in Ireland. Of a black cat called Marley purring on my lap. But I won’t dream. I won’t sleep. The world is on fire. The wind is blowing. And I want to watch the end.
You think every story should end
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Up here in the high desert of Wyoming
dead rabbits splatter the road.
Perched atop telephone poles
crows eye them hungrily.
They, the crows that is, would
be fat and happy.
If this California traffic
would ever cease.
I-70 Westbound, East of Oak Grove
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Back at their apartment, he wonders why she doesn’t answer his text.
Out here in a ditch at the 36 yardstick, twisted metal and shattered glass, broken body and bleeding skin. A stranger holding her head in his lap, brushing her hair away from her sweaty face, praying to a busy god.
The Highway Patrol is coming from Grain Valley. Flashing lights and screaming sirens, stuck in four-miles of construction. But they needn’t be in a hurry. There’s nothing to be done here but take the report, carry away the remains.
Back at his apartment, he wonders why she won’t answer her phone.
All the chocolate milk in this place is expired
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
This is an evil place. Built on the graves of the innocent, and the not so innocent. In the men’s room, a woman is crying in the handicap stall. I wash my hands, pretend I don’t hear her. I stumble back to the bar, pretend I remember where it is. Weaving through the noisy slot machines taking money from the chain-smoking machines, through the empty tables with smiling dealers. Earlier, I was something like happy. Earlier, I was something like human. Now I’m sitting in a dark corner hoping the cameras can’t find me, hoping all this fades into a forgotten memory. But there is always evidence. There are always consequences.
Purgatory, Washington
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Nothing here but heavy sun and dusty lots.
Burning air and falling hills.
Rail yards and cargo ports.
Containers and ships.
Vagrants and lot lizards.
And greasy meals.
Silence makes them lonely
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
I wake at dusk, climb down into the hot and windy twilight. I’m hoping to see something I’ve never seen before. Two planets dancing like tripping hippies. The fabled Star of Bethlehem, which wise men once followed to a myth. From a quiet corner I watch the sky. Behind me trucks belch and hiss. The sun sets, the night is covered with cloud. The wind dies, the birds quiet. And millions of dead soldiers rise from the ground. Monsters and men, women and children. Uniforms torn and rot. Wounds blood and gangrene. Standing at attention. Standing in formation. Silently watching the dark. Silently waiting for the peace they were promised.
I-70 Westbound, East of Concordia
Sunday, June 28, 2015
This one is fresh. A million pieces of windshield glittering in the sun. A woman holds her arms above her head, she weeps. She knows they’re lucky to be alive. Knows they’re even luckier to be unhurt. A man rubs his face, looks at the mess he’s made. Wonders how they’ll get home, how he’ll get to work in the morning. A state trooper picks up a pair of fishing poles from the middle of the hammer lane, kicks pieces of debris towards the shoulder. I’m happy to be getting through this now. The traffic on this road flows like a swift river in spring. And the Highway Patrol just put up a dam.
Peter, put away your sword
Sunday, June 21, 2015
We pretend this place is safe. But this place is littered with the lost, crawling with the hateful, lousy with monsters. With easy access to firearms. Capable of killing nine people in under a minute. This place is very scary indeed.
Veterans press 1
Saturday, June 13, 2015
I went to the VA in Iowa City. Talked to a PhD student.
She gave me articles to read.
I went to the VA in Topeka. Talked to a Doctor.
He gave me a Bible to read.
I went to the VA
And in the waiting rooms
I talk to veterans who know
Why I’m still awake
And drinking
At five in the morning.
Farewell Bend Motor Inn
Sunday, May 31, 2015
I hope for rain.
I talk too much when I’m drunk. When I’m stoned. I don’t even know what I’m saying mostly.
I watch this river snake its way to the ocean. I don’t like oceans. I do like lakes. I can wrap my head around the idea of a lake.
I watch these trucks sulk their way through the port of entry. The state police checking weights and measurements, permits and logs. Everyone playing the same game but by different rules.
I watch a skunk drag its broken back half across the hot pavement towards the cool tall grass to wait for death, hoping it comes quickly.
I hope for rain.