Roadside Manner

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
This mountain air  
is thick & grinning.
 
A death grip green
on yellow despair.
 
Windows down
for the morning dew
on hard thistle blue.
 
In liriope spent  
on tobacco rent
a red flag noon  
is screwing the ooze
into white-hot stew,
 
a smile so sweetly
sings the horizon-
miles over my head
on anxious bed…
 
oh, no dear
this is the dying dream
our living nightmares
continue to breathe
in not so many words.
 
(maniac bastard
stripes conceive,
you should roll your eyes  
across the moors)
 
omniscient daemons
roam my throat
with the roar  
of the interstate  
scoring close
 
absent prayers  
count blackened lungs
among the hungry years  
devouring birds.
 
This No-Matter-What
where grinding teeth
can destroy your dreams,
 
it streaks into stone
before the sickness  
is old enough to know
that we should wind up bones
on low petrol.
 
Fuming nonsense  
to light years above.
 
This highway wind
is cool & free.
 
Wings rip green
into conceivable miles.