Passenger Side

The radio is blasting static;
the sound is the feeling,
and a warm glow nearby
retreats from the cold outside
while I remain cool, congealed.

Broken is the world around me
        this is all that there is.
While the state of my mind
is two hundred yards behind,
because ignorance is bliss.

Suspended like a house of cards,
above all the fuel and coolant
just waiting for death to catch sight
of this lure that could not fight;
a bold offense to the brutal movements.

By the time my mind has found me,
there is nothing it can do.
Whatever this is, it won’t be fast,
suffering until at last,
I am able to join with you.

Night Drive

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
the road is static, the world smudged
control is an illusion wrested from machine
blind faith in a thousand unknown things
moving through time and space.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
destinations are no longer distance, but time.
If not the ending or the beginning
a long threshold, an inbetween
somehow ignorant of us in these moments
knowing only hope and nostalgia.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
the steering wheel is grappled from anothers hand
while the machine it guides is thrown about.
The gears, shafts and wheels move only in absolutes
submissive to the violence of velocity.

One hundred ten kilometers per hour
is an absurd starting block for a box of metal
tumbling like a clod of dirt down a hill
all engineering and safety cast off like night gowns
the naked vulnerability brutalized and screaming.