Sunday, April 18, 2010

Highway Miles

The guardrail is a blurry silver ribbon in my peripheral vision
And the same ten trees are running the same marathon as my car.
Sticky clumps of cloud hang static in the sky.
Fluffy and opaque, they lead me onto an odd train of thought.
Chug-chug-chug-what if-what if-what if

What if we were living in a sandwich.
This highway is a crack in a slice of crispy toast.
Is there another piece of bread on the other side of these clouds?
The people there looking up at the same marshmallow fluff in the middle.

Or what if we were hanging off of someone else’s sky.
NYC is their Orion, Hong Kong the north star.

“Look! There is a meteor shower tonight!”
“Our hearts go out to all those whose homes were lost in the forest fire last night”

Why does anything I write have to make sense.

The nonsensical and uninterrupted whine of the oboe is an over-sweetened tang that barely moistens my rattling eardrums. And meanwhile the Moses grass blows by, but still fastened in that pond, tickling my retinas with its cotton-tail tips. But that tree is hurting my head. It has given up and allowed its limbs to sag and lick the ground. That hut is mysterious. Maybe the musician with the oboe is hunkered in there, in the secret things of this life. Like trying to image what a new color would look like or that my children are actually with me where ever I go. Microscopically of course. Glowing glass gushing light particles that are being eaten by that candle dripping on this white counter. All of a sudden oddly colored pinkish walls climb the air on both sides of this road. The pedestrian crossing signs are both white and yellow. But the man is always black. Those previous two statements mean nothing, don’t even try. Merely observations. My mind is climbing up that water tower, stabbing it with a screwdriver, which I guess is the first thing that my mind thought to bring to the top of that water tower. But I want the water to bounce to the parched desert and fill the cracks in its tongue. The wide eyed children with the bloated bellies may have some too. If I wasn’t afraid of bumble bees, not saying that I am, would I still heed to the unwritten message on the caution tape? It just flashed past on the beginning of a guardrail. Is this making you dizzy? My mouth is still hairy from my nap. If this is dizzily tangling with your thoughts just be happy I do not have a hyperactive disorder. Or any disorder. They haven’t come up with one yet to diagnose me with yet. Is American currency discounted if I am going the other direction? If my eyes are not fast enough to see to the ends of this island, how can my hand be fast enough to paint this changing ocean and stagnate cheetah who is actually oozing over the plains like the slowest of molasses drips because this world is one of those tops with the rainbows on the side and all the colors become one as it whirls. They can’t fool me. That is a organized pile of colored metal, not mountains. Actually it’s a casino. I guess the American Indians are looking back to their roots for their design. And the first thing I see when I enter Canada is a Chinese Restaurant.

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