When I summon help,
the roads fill with drunken ambulance drivers,
sipping Jack Daniels between chest compressions.
Though I broke my arm—
my wrist—
my pen—
my head swims
in rivers of narcotics,
that flow like sewage through my bloodstream.
I drink tequila to navigate
and urinate for ballast.

When the stars burn like boiling polaroids,
guitars drop their hooks into the water.
I buoy my thoughts there,
to think my way back to myself.

From the cockpit of a rusting sedan
dashboard needles wade through blood,
to push me faster through empty miles.
Confident as a full boat of jacks and kings
against the fourth ten on the river,

I am all in.

The painted lines and stop signs disappear,
while miles of highway laminate
under the glow of street lights.
My face distorts in the tinted windows
of a stretched limo,
which stops at the next intersection
and opens its doors.
Clowns pour out to direct traffic
with tambourines and trumpets.

The traffic is not amused.

Brake lights glare,
horns scream and search the air like snake tongues,
as I slither onto a sidewalk stained with gum and
cigarette butts.
I follow discarded trails of modern art.
The wind blows cold ant-hills onto my arms.
I breath to warm myself,
I weave invisible tapestries into the air as I walk.
I make all the right left turns
and discard the yoke of cities,
traveling to the suburbs.

In a moment I make a life for myself,
and in three more
it is gone.

Bush"whack`ing, n.

1.

Traveling, or working a way, through bushes; pulling by the bushes, as in hauling a boat along the bushy margin of a stream.

[U.S.]

T. Flint.

2.

The crimes or warfare of bushwhackers.

[U.S.]

 

© Webster 1913.

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