a way a lone a last a loved a long the

my poetics are lurching through vague states and machinations and good luck brought me back to a very clever and energetic girl. it was on a rainy night in a dark hotel bar in the middle of the city - she sat in the corner. i walked over, noticing her colorful drink (hug), and sat down.

she always did look lovely and calm. i teased about her fancy clothes, she, my beat, and the beat blew mood architecture - never doubling back and ho never no repeating a phrase - talking, serious questions, a sigh this or the thing was and you know how. i'd ordered a drink i don't recall pronouncing. the talk continued easy, real - afterwards we left with a clean air after discussing plans, people, an open-ended

buoyed by that calm but still itching days later, strange feverish exotic, dying to put the metal machine music feedback loop on pause, so no sooner had i settled into a mind of go do this had everything become no not now. a sunday night of boredom when a friend and i were discussing strange fears in our hearts concomitantly resulting and had we finished when he was calling our friend in the wee hours for accompaniments for a drive to mexico. we picked stuff up and blasted down, flying down the highway in the early morning traffic, the pink dawn stretched, glimmering over the earth - the music - a tidal fury blasting to god and the morning star. through new york, pennsylvania, maryland, and he's still asleep. shit, i was getting tired, and just thinking then as sirens blared behind me in loud, wild whirs, then waking my friend, as the cop moseyed to the passenger window and took a look around. "where are you boys headed?" he asked in small american authority. "out for a cruise, sir, you betcha." he walked around and asked me to step out, so step out i did, and after asking cop-like questions, he tells me we stink and to turn around home.

busy back with self-satisfied disappointment though sanctuary dreams.

and right now you'd never dream we were on the same highway to mexico telling our stories with big, round eyes, a flash in the el camino dirt wig, digging somnolent ditties, patchworking the sky.