Thursday, March 10, 2011

express service

Amazingly enough I wrote this while driving- you guessed it- from Waco down to San Antonio. That route is one of the ugliest in the state- nothing but empty rangeland, truckstops and porn shops in between towns. I felt like it was a healing experience to concentrate on anything besides the "scenery!"

The title comes from the first sign I looked up to see at the exceedingly unsightly gas station where I had stopped after I wrote the poem.
* * *

The country song

drones on and on 

I-35 from Waco

down to San

and I think as I steer

thoughts that soon interfere

with the faith that I left

in a warm mug of beer

neath the neon of the sign

winking crisp, winking fine
on and off, a short circuit

like these thoughts in my mind-
circling 'round- little rats

gnawing tunnels through the slats
of the bed that's my head
rotting wood knocks it flat!
If I can't stop the vermin's' tear

with some poison  or some dare
I'll succumb and

out my head they'll race

without so much a care!

Wink the patterns of the neon-

frequencies I'll never be on-

hypnotize me like a magus

so I'm happy as a peon.

In this life, to find purpose

we're the rats and they're no worse 

off than we- driving distances,
we're driving our own hearse.

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