Remington 666

typewriter hasn't been opened
since we lugged that black box
3,500 miles to the coast and
then back
                and that was all some
time ago and still it sits there
ink drying on ribbon, keys silent
decaying imperceptibly,
                                   doesn't
have the weight or ability to call
out and end it's atrophy and mine,

something flickered like a victory as
it sat under kansas gray sky beside
that old green van, head gasket melted
night before on I-70 going west,
                                               scares
me now, it's seeming omnipotence, it's
visible and screaming existence as a
symbol in my mind, as a last tangible
link to that drive for the coast,
                                             a last
remaining symbol of our faded past.

Can't find the road in a bottle

label was the same
but street was cluttered
madness backed up
rush hour mess, wait at
light three times, rain
coming down, smell
of sweat damp stench
M street to Wisconsin
time it takes to get
home on a normal day
what're ya gonna do,
this ain't Kansas brother,
this ain't the open plains

I drew up the memory of
40, walking under overcast skies,
lost in a place I'd never been,
never believed I'd be,

now, here, here
the beer doesn't even taste the same,
it's not unexpected,
and it ain't the west,

I choked it down,
I ordered another.

I'm ready

It's becoming real again,
sinking in,
my body moving forward again,
my mind yearning again
     for the drive
     for the wheel
     for long stretches
     for tundras, hills, mountains
     for the Great North
     for snow & hell
I'll take whatever
     I've gotta move or die
     I've gotta see it
                             again
                          live again
Give me those sleepless hours
                             talk
                           laughter
                       understanding
give me those Junction city boys
                       & their road.

JC

Can't help but think of
Kansas on dreary gray days
like this, like the morning
we woke to cloudy Junction City,
van dead, trip in peril,
tow truck man (no 24 hour) taxi
man black holes of
Earth & all was well, this
was the road we walked
silently, in pairs, in threes,
in fives, to Stacey's & the
weeks ahead.

Blackhole Junction
on roadside 2am

36 hour stall

tagged across america

forever home

Junction

You ain't a Junction City Boy
until you've been stranded
on that thirsty starless Sunday boulevard
down by the Super 8
Route 40 eatin' biscuits and gravy
strong coffee at Stacey's come 4am,
just you and the truckers
happen to be passing through

You don't know what it's like
on that old odd corner 5th and East
by the livestock auction fence,
abandoned mill beside the spinning
railroad tracks,
Tennessee Charlie giving ya hell--for what?
"it's a Job," he'd say, "got on a boat!" &
he'd go--

You can't stick ta that name
till you drag your bones outta that
black hole town & get moving west, till ya
see those mountains that'll take your whole
eye in and hold it in the land forever &
with the gray sun setting
make your way to bluer shores;

the name only comes from looking back.