Burning wild.
High desert
Umatilla.
hungover
smoking
a cheap cigar
AC
dogs
heat
head on fire with something
I can't explain save the feelings of expectation
and fear
Sunday.
people leaving church
blow around me
in white SUVs
their faces twisted and
smug
equity in Christ
they eye me as they pass
I glance at them sideways
then watch the road
hot brow
eyes red and sore
the short afternoon sun
burning wild
dirt and displacement
and small corpses
the desert is an ocean
my hands feeling old
and broken-boned
and thick
surf the radio
modern country and
evangelists
I keep it in the right lane
while the faces blow past me
on their way to somewhere terrible
not one ounce of rescue
in them
not one ounce of mercy
not one ounce
of intelligent curiosity
I check my review for the
rental truck
my buddy behind the wheel
all my belongings in the
back
and switch my thoughts to the small bar in Baker City last night
small town
a rare nightfall fast
gripping our drinks
and breathing easy in
that place
the town outside with
just enough light
to make you trust somebody
my buddy stepped outside
to have a cigarette and we laughed through the window
at a couple arguing
in full denim outfits
walking past
people eyeing us
objects of mystery
walking the street back
to our rooms
drunk
alive
back within our
element
the summer moon against
the clock tower
the smell of old Main Street
the last few survivors
beating the night
stumbling home or to
their spots behind
old buildings
we stopped and watched the clock tower
its face lit yellow in
that moonlight
a heavy metal western
I switch my mind back to the road
nothing changes out here
not the dirt
or the beauty
or the stark expanse
bleeding across the heart of escape, of youth
the faces blow around until the last exit of another town
I watch another white one
exit carefully in my rearview
their death is a lie
but regarding death
there are no better
answers.
I wait for the truck to reappear in the rearview
the road opens up into
a long dream
stark and exact
and without end
without fail
American Woman
comes in clear
over the static
an old
biker
passes me
and gives me
the devil horns
I return them with strength
while he
switches lanes in front of me
and tears off up the road
on the way
to somewhere wonderful.