Yellow ribbons unspool, disappearing
with the curvature of the Earth.
I eat yellow ribbons.
The road is gobbled up before me.
I drive these roads only at night.
It is always night.
Hubcaps dance, spiral-spinning.
Tires scribble rubber-black meaningless symbols,
translatable only from heaven’s perspective.
Cliffsides hold back empty air,
lest it rush in vaporous waterfalls to my mad lungs,
drowning me dry.
A lone shrub marks a passage
through shiny gray guardrail taffy-twisted.
Drunk at the top; sober by the bottom.
Time is a window in a very high office building
through which we are all falling
down.
Starshine on a caterpillar patrolling
the speed-sharpened metal.
A box to die in.
Airbags — eternity’s pillow.
Two million miles of asphalt.
I can’t find my crash.
She found hers; mine eludes me.
We set off trunk to trunk down opposite roads.
Like the birth of the universe,
she lasted three minutes.
I grip the wheel barely at all;
pay no mind to jackrabbits,
nor they to jackasses.
The car keeps itself on the road.
The car is a hell machine.
The car is my home.
Till the roads are no more.
About Mark Joseph Kiewlak
