The end is near and love is only make believe.
they're remembered best
as a quick succession
of furious navigational mistakes:
running barefoot from the institution
cigarette dangling
from a bandaged hand
and nothing but a blanket
a new moon
and an armada of one-eyed doctors
between her
and her truck,
next stop me
and the best she'd ever be,
not sure where she was going but sure i'd be there
(i'd taken a wrong turn
and ended up in tundra
remembering only vaguely
a missed appointment,
perhaps important);
the next,
a pretty girl with her first needle
revving like a souped up caddy
me tracing the roadmap
to a questionable location
on the bad side of town
on the insides of her pale and freckled arm
"here,"
i said,
"this route would be your best bet,"
she pounded it,
pedal to the metal
soaring the highways and byways
of her wetslick capillaries
got there faster
than either of us would've expected
but then, she was always
a bit more reckless than i
behind the wheel.
there was a sad-eyed boy once
tripping to god knows where
who asked me
directions to oblivion
and got a slightly different answer
(i wouldn't make the same mistake twice,
that was for damned sure
i'd been studying my atlas this time)
"take a left here and
at the junction of my thighs
go straight ahead,
you can't miss it."
but ended up in pretty much the same place anyway
with a tank running on empty
and the familiar sense
of not having travelled
very far at all.
i've realized since
that i ain't no magellan
no cat for the crow's nest
or passenger seat
the red and blue traces of a paper topography
are a blur to me,
and i'm always begging to stop
at those rinky-dink tourist traps
featuring jackelopes and wax museums.
i can never figure out which way is north
with my gumball machine compass,
or how to fold the map back up in
a neat
little package
once it's been consulted
but if someone's seeking
that road to oblivion
the route i've shuttled many a year now
wondering if it's really worth the commute
(what with gas prices these days)
the good samaritan in me
is never quite able to shrug
smile cluelessly
and point them in the opposite direction
as a quick succession
of furious navigational mistakes:
running barefoot from the institution
cigarette dangling
from a bandaged hand
and nothing but a blanket
a new moon
and an armada of one-eyed doctors
between her
and her truck,
next stop me
and the best she'd ever be,
not sure where she was going but sure i'd be there
(i'd taken a wrong turn
and ended up in tundra
remembering only vaguely
a missed appointment,
perhaps important);
the next,
a pretty girl with her first needle
revving like a souped up caddy
me tracing the roadmap
to a questionable location
on the bad side of town
on the insides of her pale and freckled arm
"here,"
i said,
"this route would be your best bet,"
she pounded it,
pedal to the metal
soaring the highways and byways
of her wetslick capillaries
got there faster
than either of us would've expected
but then, she was always
a bit more reckless than i
behind the wheel.
there was a sad-eyed boy once
tripping to god knows where
who asked me
directions to oblivion
and got a slightly different answer
(i wouldn't make the same mistake twice,
that was for damned sure
i'd been studying my atlas this time)
"take a left here and
at the junction of my thighs
go straight ahead,
you can't miss it."
but ended up in pretty much the same place anyway
with a tank running on empty
and the familiar sense
of not having travelled
very far at all.
i've realized since
that i ain't no magellan
no cat for the crow's nest
or passenger seat
the red and blue traces of a paper topography
are a blur to me,
and i'm always begging to stop
at those rinky-dink tourist traps
featuring jackelopes and wax museums.
i can never figure out which way is north
with my gumball machine compass,
or how to fold the map back up in
a neat
little package
once it's been consulted
but if someone's seeking
that road to oblivion
the route i've shuttled many a year now
wondering if it's really worth the commute
(what with gas prices these days)
the good samaritan in me
is never quite able to shrug
smile cluelessly
and point them in the opposite direction