a truck bed raised eighteen inches. a mini-Tahoma summit to the passenger seat. swallow my salted goodbyes. flashes of a blue merle’s howl echo out of the driveway


adjust the rearview mirror seven years into the distance. consecrate the glacial ascent of mile one

and bless the open road with fistfuls of fishy crackers and mixtapes 


three hundred cubic feet crams a quarter century payload. a four-poster bed and Oasis records passed down from sister to brother to my stuffed dalmatian. a present for the Christmas of ‘95


not quite an homage to carbon neutral politics but a salute to over passes with more than a thirteen-foot clearance. And motels with complimentary parking


lone PINE, lone SHEEP, lone WOMAN


thumbing through Kerouac and Krakauer. pages flap into big sky V formations. windows rolled down on I-25 south. dirt caked onto rib cages and soles of sandals and Free Fallin through the airwaves. Pasture billboards, tall tales like cowboy hats and 48-ounce soft drinks with extra ice


“there’s evidence for the existence of GOD!”


but it’s yet to be found in any rest stop east of the Columbia. but promises linger three exits past Pueblo. in 99 cent soft serve swirled atop a cake cone


bleached linen punctuates shadows. dip closer to the equator and the moon envelops half an August evening’s red rock canyon. liminal dreams orbit in unison with oil pumps and whips cracking outside the rattlesnake roundup


hit the motel parking lot pavement. moths waltz in the streetlight afterglow. a table set for mosquitos’ last feast. soupy air unravels any notion of privacy


nails graze the windowpane. knock and leave at the door bowls of beef and broccoli. neon signs illuminate more than only a day’s travels  


lay to rest 2 am emails and spread tapered jeans. rib knit spaghetti straps. set the alarm for 10:27.  twist bleached cotton sheets into a homesick chrysalis. draw the curtains crank the up the AC and flip the channel past 1-800 promises


a reverse eight of swords reveals that a windshield wiper gives 60 yards more clearance than a collect call to a television psychic line. but if I do succumb tonight to this midnight swamp air lay me at the altar of


98% humidity

iced chai from Mozart’s

a cicada’s sweet symphony