Tag Archives: road trip

Impatient For The Stars

Daisie sits on a swing in a small park

just off the two lane highway,

somewhere in Kansas.

We’re on vacation, finally, heading

to Northern California, to Mt Shasta,

and the ships in the air.

I sit on the swing beside her and we

pass a huge plastic cup of fast food iced tea

back and forth between us.

There’s a splinter in her heart tonight,

and I don’t know how to soothe her.

We’re chasing something beyond this world.

The park is as tired as a resigned sigh,

and the swings and jungle gyms and spring animals

have seen better days. Still children happily play here.

The sky is so huge it could swallow us, like God swallows

the universe in his eye, and we may stay until the stars come,

so we could look out on the night through God’s eye.

A long way to go to get where angels or demons or

otherworldly beings make sense of this restlessness

and unquiet, this desire to escape flesh and gravity.

Out of tea, she places the empty cup by her feet,

and we look up at the sky, impatient for the stars,

for the voice that quiets the terror and dislocation.

No Promise of Outer Space

Black leather and denim hoodie, the hood drawn over her face.

               An old ‘70s Yamaha motorbike, a faded and flecked blue.

               Drizzly rain, clouds a crown on a starry night,

               No promise of outer space.

 

               Death and life in the smell of gasoline, the fire of damnation

               And fuel of the frontier, the scream of speed into darkness.

               I got on the motorbike behind her, press myself to her,

               No promise of heaven, only escape.

 

               One jammed open eye showing light on the empty highways,

               From the bleak valleys of these Appalachian Mountains,

               To the arid plains, on our way to the Sea of Cortez,

               No promise of love, only of sweetness.

 

               Asleep beneath the sky, the air chill and the stars endless,

               My head on her shoulder, watching her breathe, at peace.

               Sleeping bag snug for two, as if her skin could swallow me.

               No promise of dreams, only hope.