silverwheel
Bluelighter
written tonight
I started driving
and that was all I needed
to get lost in my car's
hypnotic glide;
everything
was shrouded in mist
tonight,
and I would be lost
everywhere.
The most striking image
is the most recent stoplight
with red beaming
or the tower lights
radiating a burning glow
on the roads.
Thus, I never called.
Why not be lost everywhere?
Just a bubble of fog on my town
and I can disappear
anywhere.
On the road, you know exactly
where your light goes,
and if you find people,
they were in the one spot
you were pointing toward.
An ex-lover called me a glutton for punishment,
but why banish
a criminal already fleeing the city?
And she's right:
I get lonelier.
But then again,
it's no pity-party
I'm rushing to.
I might reminisce
and relish photographs
like I was living them
but broken dreams
won't make me sad.
Dope won't make me sluggish.
Here my British homeland
transubstantiates into the intoxicating drink,
and I swear I'm a prophet
turning my memory into wine,
and taking a sunset and breaking it
into enough to feed 5,000.
Like every drink,
it destroys my body
underneath every sip.
Most mornings
I'm hung over
with that sunset burned
into my lobes,
and with every passing season,
I rebuild.
Some rain-drenched mornings,
I look at myself
and weep.
Bleed something ancient.
Some old voice.
A mere tattoo marking the line
between here and death.
If I have grace
I might get pulled up
eventually,
and a sober day
might treat me:
the fresh, new,
blooming,
and I love it. (what other fuel would there be?)
and at the first rich fog
I can flee again,
fresh, new,
blooming,
and giving thanks
for another night.
Yet tonight
when I got lost in the fog,
the burning glow
dissolved
the further south I drove.
Still the same tower lights above me,
but no radiation,
no sickness,
just people and buildings
jumping out of the fog.
11-02-03 12:54 a.m.
I started driving
and that was all I needed
to get lost in my car's
hypnotic glide;
everything
was shrouded in mist
tonight,
and I would be lost
everywhere.
The most striking image
is the most recent stoplight
with red beaming
or the tower lights
radiating a burning glow
on the roads.
Thus, I never called.
Why not be lost everywhere?
Just a bubble of fog on my town
and I can disappear
anywhere.
On the road, you know exactly
where your light goes,
and if you find people,
they were in the one spot
you were pointing toward.
An ex-lover called me a glutton for punishment,
but why banish
a criminal already fleeing the city?
And she's right:
I get lonelier.
But then again,
it's no pity-party
I'm rushing to.
I might reminisce
and relish photographs
like I was living them
but broken dreams
won't make me sad.
Dope won't make me sluggish.
Here my British homeland
transubstantiates into the intoxicating drink,
and I swear I'm a prophet
turning my memory into wine,
and taking a sunset and breaking it
into enough to feed 5,000.
Like every drink,
it destroys my body
underneath every sip.
Most mornings
I'm hung over
with that sunset burned
into my lobes,
and with every passing season,
I rebuild.
Some rain-drenched mornings,
I look at myself
and weep.
Bleed something ancient.
Some old voice.
A mere tattoo marking the line
between here and death.
If I have grace
I might get pulled up
eventually,
and a sober day
might treat me:
the fresh, new,
blooming,
and I love it. (what other fuel would there be?)
and at the first rich fog
I can flee again,
fresh, new,
blooming,
and giving thanks
for another night.
Yet tonight
when I got lost in the fog,
the burning glow
dissolved
the further south I drove.
Still the same tower lights above me,
but no radiation,
no sickness,
just people and buildings
jumping out of the fog.
11-02-03 12:54 a.m.
