between sweetwater and hillsboro

the sky is dark
more dusk than the
ten o’seven the
radio displays
clouds hang down
on the hils in
strands of silk
the horizon is
ill defined
the inside of a
soread apart
grilled cheese as
tendrils of sky
tickle the red dirt

it is silent
between songs
no hawks fly
just the car
and three semis
ahead and three
semis behind
on a long stretch
between nowheres

ambient sound
trickles through
the speakers
ominous enough
fingers grip
the wheel a
bit tighter as
the guitar slides
a sludgy wave
and the bassline
thumps a heartbeat
the car sways
through the asphalt
depressions in
a metronomic loop
as the drums enter
the wall of sound
separates as the
wipers clear clumps
of red mud raining
into a driving
groove of heaviness
lowering your
center of gravity
as you hug the
turns while the
drummers slowly
fall out of time
the sudden flat
land sends the wind
smashing and the
disynchopated notes
flicker as buzzo
snarls the rage
of the storm
and the trailers
sway to the sound
of tempests raging

the sky is dark
more dusk than the
ten twelve the
radio displays
two more hours on
the road until home
another word that
has lost its meaning
in the blowing grit
i left the corpse
of who i had become
but never wanted
to be tucked in
snug as bug in a
cumstained rug
for the cleaning lady
to toss in the trash

it is silent
between songs
and i am alright
alone in my head
for now at least
but watching
the display for
the next song
hoping for the ramones.


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