These days I
key cars in my sleep, don’t eat,
wait on porches,
and dream about the Kennedys.
These days, I think I’m wearing algae,
growing roots around
displaced rocks and
old washing machines.
The air is
fish heavy, knee-deep
and holds me up like
the hood of your car -
rusty
and indestructible.
Broke down between Portland and Denver
slept on the grass with my fingers crossed,
woke up with Idaho ants in my hair,
no watch,
and a new sense of sovereignty.
Pretty soon, I’ll take back the West coast
to smell moss and hear Orick at 6 am,
right off Highway 5.
sleep in the seat near the back of the bus,
and wish that they would all shut up,
until the tension turns.
we laughed because there’s no way out -
we're the trash on a Greyhound.
these days I
key cars in my sleep, don’t eat,
wait on porches,
dream about the Kennedys,
and hope I fall out soon.
Comments
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Delighted you came back with bits of a poem I remember and some other bits I don't.
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wow. agog-fucking-smurf. a blast from the past for sure.
This brings back so many greyhound memories for me. We used to be able to smoke at the back of the bus. There is something elevating and divine about waking up in strange places; the courage of youth, the holiness of the road, the communal hallelujah of the lost.
Wonderful. So free of message and, hence, so full of poetry. Great to see you post again.
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