Google drives

tucked into my google drive
buried under edited versions of the same documents
titled (1) (2) (3) (4) (and so on)
is nothing particularly interesting
alphabetically or chronologically ordered
nor listed by type and size
merely the collected digital trash
collated by being mine
making up the grand total of unknowable mb
until told I've run out
undeleted unopened underrated
since the year of our cyberlord google 2008.

Traffic

those red eyes, move steady toward me

night chases the morning          on headlight streams

& bitter miles left to go     the bitter miles between me

where I am meant to be     in traffic hours ago

a dry cough          into empty water bottle neck

soon by the side of the road inked in red          Both doors closed

I'll lose the lead I've built up          the dam will break

those red eyes, move steady, fading away

US-301S

crust of plantation grange
lifted in sponge of night
rain
     
         through car vents
manure sowed

                         fertilizer fields
ripples rows of tree

                                  flat land
fat land swamp waft obscure
stagnant blue ponds

                                    moss pours
iridescent
             
                   sequin shift of streaking
drops tear and spread become bits of
static light
                 
                    stretch realign mingle disperse

Friday Nights

starting off at dusk--
on car piled, metal snake
slinging cement gray road
plied by mass of commuter transit
nightmares, all hands headed to opposite
shores, quiet homes, small
pleasures, lonely hours,
ovens cold, fast food on table top,
missing children, barking dogs, hungry
cat, snow shifting madness, waiting tolls--
I get those sad groaning butterflies
of driving east, driving toward the old
shore, the thick waves of brown atlantic--
away from the great western stretch,
pioneers and new lands, fabled
journeys long etched into memory--
those sad eastern butterflies of
going home, of timelessness, and long
lost childhoods reaching out to me,
speaking in languages
I can no longer comprehend.

Supplication; The Road III

Stirring in my
gut, in memory
in visions of past
and what's coming,
I see long gray
roads bleeding out
into the great distance
ahead, straight as a
Gad damn arrow at the
heart of eternity
and so real, real,
that I can't shake it,
knowing a new season
is coming--a new race to
the coast--my body
picking up speed
going 70-80-90 mph
hitting hell and storms
blue waves and endless
oceans, I can't remain
still, I can't! I tell myself
again and again,
I can't!

Grayed Hounds

Greyhound bus drivers
must be the saddest drivers
in the world,

they've got one track &
an eternity same scene
flashing the human
aquarium interstate highway
traffic jam from birth till
death

only the passengers change
& maybe the tires
but they keep on writing
on those same gray roads
same tire marks
leaving nothing behind or
ahead--

Do Not Swim Here

six hours toward
a no-name beach
and I stand dejected on the shore
next to black snake-like pipe
worming it's way toward the bay
the rocky un-swimmable bay beach
I can make out a light house in the distance
guiding sailing boats into the
Chesapeake and beyond
a group of yuppies rides in
on a golf cart drinking (what I assume)
is an expensive craft beer,
Felicia holds my arm in consolation
reminding me it's better than she expected,
finding a smooth white shell, she presses
it into my hands and into my pockets
my pockets are empty,
aren't there any hidden beaches left on the east coast?

Ah, Newport, I think, one bridge to cross and
only an hour away
but I'm already shaking my head

On-coming

Saw the tracks on the
wrong side of Columbus,
Vitaly had pulled out into
on coming traffic, wrong side
of the road, heading right into
old broken down trolley river
styx and we were next to try
and cross it, but I noticed in those
final seconds and we slid to a halt
on a patch of grass, and the faces in
the cars were watching, the headlights
blaring, the last vespa bent to the road south
before we could u-turn the bitch and
get on I-95, "Fuck, Vitaly, you
almost killed us!" Will was hammering
the dashboard, "Yea,
I admit that but they gotta put up some fucking signs,"
He's right I thought in the back seat
there weren't any signs, no signs
pointing the wrong direction.

(to be read as the beginning of this poem) Like...

Beige carpets showing age
my steps unearth
cross-hatched plastic glue
underneath scuttling rubber shoes,

worn thin,
                Tick-tock

Journey's through
fast food drive-ins and
supermarket self-checkout lanes
(without that unnecessarily necessary small talk)
finds me missing that almost pretty girl
(sad smile and all)
that we'll never know,
                                to forget.
as we drive away-

Driving home

Jesus Christ+
what is that behind me?
its got like 30 headlights
a big hulking spider truck
swear the lights weigh more
than my tiny (94' Corsica),
look don't look look
close my eyes and still see it,
it's like the truck from the Hitcher
fuck.
I'm gonna die.
whoa, alright
stop rear-view driving,
but the world looks so much more
simple.
and backward
from here,
I'm taking every curve,
oh shit,
he's got his turn signal (is that what it is
among all those lights)
he's faking me out forward
look forward
okay, now you got it
remember that phone number from the infomercial,
yeah the one with the guy and the hovering chair,
you could use that,
1-800-some...thing...
close but they all end/begin like that
he's turned off, probably trying to cut me off
on the next street
better hurry up
Jim Halsey understands
yeah man...sorry about that
just play it cool
run a few stop signs
get home dial that number
everything's cool
and forward.