Taylor Brady




Road Movie Soundtrack, With Insertions

Call it out of line.
Back that unit down
and out of range. Pure domain
opens up pure domination.

"Am I trying to hurt you, captain?"
The stick held in the belly, point
blank urge self-managing. That,
plus hours of all the saddest songs.

       Fire. Hungry women.
       Lovely children. More
       than any other town

                                     more elbows turning in
                                     the air around her tuning
                                     in tangible static all
                                     about him inspires you
                                     the audience with wild
                                     traffic what's that sound
                                     that's or what's escape as
                                     it whirls away or as it
                                     surges back into your view

                 past the convicts one can't
                 allow to get involved with one

                                more sordid prison's reason or sense
                                or force of some conviction. One's
                                own conviction. One's double sense
                                of balance. These are no "results."
                                Youth detention facility shoots by
                                behind fifteen-foot cyclone fence.
                                Free movement of late-model cars. All angles
                                of incidence without incident. Blank or void
                                "resultant" of those bug-sized forces.

"How did we do yesterday?" he asked.
"We made the miracle of touch typing,"
and his lower lip trembled, tongued surplus,

                                               squirting you
                                               back at you.
                                               I'm going
                                               to die anyway.
I don't care

if someone's following me.
But the magazine man does seem
to bring around a new subscription
every time we move. Well, then I started running

snapshots from a Photographic History of Song
in a special four-part series. He was sickeningly
disappointed. Sick and hot with migraine, feeling
inverse sympathy for all those headless creatures.
He never wrote a fragment. Extracts actually
grow inside the reader's brain, like cockroach eggs.

                He is in your ear. Your car.

                His language. "Cast iron."

Describe medieval music abstracted from the festival,
the festival today abstracted from the downtown square:
free blues in the bank plaza. Didn't we pass this town
before? Sound installed with ringing blows inside

            the quintessential early metal building

            money dancing to refresh itself

            calculation running hard before design

                                                 --pleasurably, without shyness
                                                 --loud, the second time round
                                                 --the game goes back to snares
                                                 --once more, with feeling

You wake in cramped quarters. A billboard flashes past:
"You have a son-in-law in the Department of Accidents."
Like a friend in Jesus, or Pennsylvania. Bumper sticker
the negation of a license plate. Polemics in the passing lane
with short-haul freight: sewer sludge, cable spools, tons
of brick, under tongues of men and women, still themselves
among the bubbles, in a pool of pork-rind-flavored
spit, mortaring a discourse into auto-presence.
Pull off up ahead. Who wants another bag of these?