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werewolf
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headlights behind, tailights ahead,
moving in my stomach,
moving in my head,
it's always been nightime when i make this drive. the same road's a different drive if it isn't nightime.
at nightime, where the road is smooth,
it seems wet with rain,
or a mirror of the sky,
as if it might fall away, or open up,
because a road can't fall away,
it can only go back to being more than narrow.
two lanes diverged from a yellow line,
and i rode in the middle awkardly,
at high speeds, but tightened into one lane, when i thought a cop was following me.
and what do i imagine waits for me? it has to be more than this, or else i am not going. and a road is always going. i picture her face. i picture tonight. then new york. and a suburb of tokyo. i picture her in the pain of labor, and in the pleasure of a night,
perhaps tonight, perhaps the light which illuminates an accelerating furor in her eyes, her mouth as it stretches out the word yes into a prayer, perhaps the light is pale, and from this moon.
and i picture a run down apartment in iowa, i live there now because my car ran out of gas. and are all these mutually exclusive? she stands as the known against the unknown, and yet, her faces number in millions, like a host of angels on a pinhead, like locusts, like angles in a circle.
and yet for certain, the pleasure of a liar, the ambivalence of a fraud, the sexual ecstasy of a stranger who liked the way i said one word, perhaps sorry. all of these are not where i am going tonight. their exits signs will seem empty cardboard cutouts in the light of morning. they seem like holes in the funhouse now though. the way you walk down the halls and for a moment are more frightened by the bit of noise and light coming from the world you left to enter.
two lanes diverged from a yellow line, and i straddled the middle awkardly then tightened into one because i thought a cop was following me.
the mind is a highway wet with guesses.
the mind is a highway with many exits, but only one road you know by heart.
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031006
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