What I learned on the highway

 

Note

You're still somewhere in there
out there, angry scowl and sudden eyes
flashing delight and I know that because
no matter how much change that guy gets
he still begs for more change, and 
she has it all and still
feels fucked over, and he has three
beautiful kids and still is suicidal.
Her son is a heroin addict and husband
has cancer, as she slowly loses her central vision
and is having a great day. 
The quick and sweetness of the air
at times wherever you are now
(because the idea as we would
if not stay) is undebatable
even by you, saying into the night
(at least be locatable)
it's still you out there
in there

The scene

I didn't imagine it so much like the video: the dramatic stuff in slow motion,
boring parts where you fast forward, the stupid obvious music but you cry anyway.
Watching this come apart mid air like a marriage in a country song
as zombie movies have accustomed us. Close up shots, back story and nice composition that tells you someone is about to get his throat torn out. In our quiet neighborhoods
we can see people crucified on camera, wondering idly if they argued with their kids
or had a secret romance, or liked to tell stories. I wondered how it would feel 
when the power ran out, or the momentum, or luck or whatever, would feel conditional future as not likely, no bug-out plan, grain mill, ammo storage, embarrassment for those in charge, prayer. I didn't imagine it like the video:
the London fire, slowly spreading out of Pudding Lane, no water mains, no fire trucks,
just a few raggedy bucket brigades snaking from the Thames, two weeks lighting up the city, except this time everybody just sits there and burns. 

Thomas Morton

In his last years
back in Devon, good ale at the local, wrists iron scarred,
a shuffling curiosity laughed at by the young, peering at the morris dancers.
Beaten, yeah. Bewildered maybe still by the rancor of the saints
maybe a bullock's heart strung above his door bristling with pins
gift of an old family friend. The moor's foggy greens and greys suit him now,
shades that bored him so much once that he flung himself over the edge of the world
and found such beauty that once seen, could not stay. He was naive, yeah, 
dreaming of a better world as his neighbors killed people with dogs, 
"that twine in fine meanders through the meads, making so sweet
a murmuring noise to hear as would even lull the senses with delight a sleepe."
And the Mattapoiset girl, and that rogue puritan like him, hair flying
round the maypole. On odd clear nights when here the sky goes lavender 
he dreams of Merry Mount, that world now a dream world again.