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,
back at you.
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?