Hauling the recently harvested out of Nebraska. Their blood draining from the back of my trailer. The passing cars baptized by the pink mist of their future value meals.
Because cops are lazy. And can’t spell good.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Tensions ran high at the Ogden Flying J as two drivers exchanged blows in the middle of the parking lot earlier tonight. Truck stop employees tried valiantly to stop the fight but it quickly became clear that they were out of their element. Local police were called on the 911, tearing a deputy sheriff away from his dinner of Big Macs and Coca-Colas and apple pies. And then three more showed up. Despite one of the drivers being the clear loser of the altercation–bleeding from the nose, swollen eye, crying–the patrol sergeant decreed that no actual assault occurred. And that it was most likely “mutual combat” anyway and she ordered everyone to go home. Probably because both drivers were white. And it was almost end of shift. And it was $1.50 Bud Light and Crown night at Dave’s.
How my student loans will kill me
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Three in the morning.
On a Wednesday.
In the middle of Nebraska.
In a shallow ditch.
$40,000 short.
Keokuk, Iowa
Friday, October 12, 2012
This cold front’s been chasing me since Salt Lake City.
Walmart. Always Walmart.
Up and over Donner Pass. That place of American failure.
Eat your children in order to live.
Walmart. Always Walmart.
My lips haven’t been warm since they touched yours.
This cold front caught up to me in Muncie.
And it’s been raining ever since.
Saint James, Missouri
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Two in the morning and running late. Always running late. Destination: A charcoal factory in the middle of nowhere. Charcoal factories are always in the middle of nowhere. Winding down narrow county roads. You’re lucky you get any charcoal at all. For your Fourth of July barbecue.
Black mist covers cracked concrete, kicks into the air every step I take. I have to use the bathroom, but I’ll wait. Sick yellow light, men like coal miners eating sandwiches on a loading dock. They won’t load until the morning. I sleep fretfully in the back, fine black dust settling in my lungs, my clock ticking down to zero.
In the morning, apocalypse revealed. Black water and gray smoke, cords of wood and burning sun. There’s a scale at the bottom of the hill, but it doesn’t work. Green buildings, all of them sinking into the ground.
Many saints live in Missouri. But it doesn’t do them any good.
In the morning, a dream remembered. Kneeling in the dirt of the Colosseum. Fifteen of us in a circle, facing out. The crowd cheering. Roman soldiers spearing us to death. Remembering the pain, I touch my chest.
Many saints live in Missouri. But it doesn’t do me any good.
Grand Island, Nebraska
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Night. Morning. Drunks leaving the bar. Black sky. No moon, no stars. 455 empty miles. That we call Nebraska. Heading to the ocean as slow as I can. No water in sight, west of Grand Island. Red and blue lights strobing and flashing. A big truck on its side, leaking diesel. Driver nowhere to be found. What happened here?
I think of my son. Down in Honduras. Comayagua dust covers his bare feet. Hanging out on the corner with his friends. Black eyes and red hair, looking for somewhere to go, something to do. He’d be 17. An old teenager. An angry young man. Left in the Comayagua dust while daddy drives over the golden roads of America.
I think of his mother. She knew what she wanted. She wanted to watch TV. I’d pay extra for the hotel room with the color TV. When I was done, I’d sleep while she stayed up watching game shows in Spanish. In the morning, a hazy sun, dogs poking through the trash for breakfast, I’d go to work and she’d go home. Wherever that was.
Light coming up behind me now. On the border. Plains and mountains, deserts and rivers. Ocean to ocean. One day, even the oceans will turn to dust.
Probably I don’t have a son. Probably she lied to me. She knew what she wanted.
But driving across the 455 empty miles of Nebraska, it’s nice to imagine that I’m not so alone.
Barstow, California
Monday, April 9, 2012
Over the desert and through the mountains. Heading to LA. That seething pit of humanity. There is no poetry on this road. The new moon a hole in the sky. All those dead stars clinging to life. Your face just beyond the high beams. The same song playing again on the radio. Static on the CB. The hum of my own wheels. All driving me crazy. Your face just beyond the high beams. Smiling and saying goodbye. The sun rising in the mirrors. Smiling and saying goodbye. Obscures more than it makes clear. There is no poetry on this road. I’ll drive a million miles and never come to an end. I’ll drive a million miles. And never find you again.
I dreamt of Muni
Friday, November 4, 2011
I had a dream about Muni the other night. It was scary. The bus, of course, was late. And packed. And going the wrong way. And everybody was wearing a costume. And puking on the seats. And I got off at the wrong stop. And had to walk all the way home. Which is probably what I should’ve done in the first place. But it was a dream. And I was chasing a slutty nurse. Who let me feel her up. And then disappeared onto the bus.
On semantics, and other unconstitutional things
Monday, October 10, 2011
Congress shall make no law
But your local municipality may require you to obtain a permit allowing you to peacefully assemble, to petition the government. And the supreme court says that these requirements for permits are okay. Because the state must be free to sanction free speech.
And without a permit to gather from the state, the state police are free to beat and pepper spray you, free to issue “lawful orders†for you to disperse, free to arrest you and deprive you of your liberty.
“Freedom is something you assume. And then you wait for someone to take it away from you. The degree to which you resist is the degree to which you are free.â€
We are slaves to the Constitution pretending to be free because our masters tell us to be.
We are slaves to the state because we don’t own the state. We only think we do.
The letter writer
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
In the city, the street always loud and bright with light. At two in the morning, stumbling towards home from Tenderloin bars. Buses and fire trucks. Hundreds of thousands of people. Sleeping, snoring, yelling, fucking. Noise surrounding noise.
Now, deep underground. No streets. Only railroad and highways. No people. Only metal and glass and cargo. Deep underground, staring at dusty sheets of paper. Deep underground, scribbling messages never to be read. Deep underground, drinking and sleeping and drinking and sleeping and drinking. Eating frozen things. Deep underground, forever dark, forever remembering city lights.