The Bronski
Beat sings
run away/turn away/run away
as I shift
into fifth gear,
push through
fog that shrouds
the tops of
trees. Sometimes
I want to
pass my destination
and step on
the first train to anywhere,
watch the
landscape and backyards
from a
passenger’s point of view.
Once I passed
a cop on a motorcycle.
Unwise. “You want to tell me why you think
it’s a good idea to pass me?” he asked.
The shadow of
his hat darkened my door.
“I’m in love,”
I answered as if it were
a universal
excuse, then said,
“Not with you, of course.” Also unwise.
My mind
clutches the scrap of an idea
while I’m on
the road, and the white noise
of the
pavement under my tires sings
that thought
into an entire musical,
complete with
sets and homemade props.
With the
sunroof open, all my thoughts
go to seed like
a dandelion in a gust of summer.
My hair imitates.
My hair imitates.
I scrawled
POETRY across an old political
bumper
sticker, then added one that says
“Reading is
Sexy,” another that claims “I like this,”
and a pink circle
with “I love the hoop” written
in the
center. I believe it’s possible
to have too
many bumper stickers.
In the little
plastic vase on the dashboard
I keep a pair
of chopsticks and two pens.
The glovebox
is a morass of papers
that prove
the car is registered and insured.
In dreams my
car is an anchor that drags
me into the
mazy haze of underwater
swimminess, a
lake that wants to swallow
my life. I spin
off an empty highway
and land in my
own madness.
The other
night, I dreamed my middle name
was Joule – a
unit of energy in my center of being.
I think of
myself as Joule inside this red bubble.
I wave to the
crossing guard,
tap my
fingers on the steering wheel to the Bangles’
Going Down to Liverpool to Do Nothing,
and unroll
the window to feel the air
howl its big,
empty questions in my ears.
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