The drive out there was a
constant blur of trees–
The sun peeking through
in slices, like a 5mm film-projector
being juggled, & always catching bits
of the audiences’ heads.
The Oldsmobile, 2yrs before
its sad Friday night stint at
the local demolition-derby, smelled
like spilled coffee, spilled beer,
spilled joints, & the car seat’s
inner-yellow, zinger-ish upholstery-cushions
would stick to your clothes
like burs or radioactive fleas.
We were going to our
parents’ friends’ place.
These mad Thoreau frontiersmen & women
That didn’t write nature essays, but, instead,
perimetered themselves w/
marijuana plants & cages
full of bluish dogs-
Like backwoods Moreau scientists
farting-around w/ wolf, dingo, fox,
coyote DNA for that
just right, combo-platter
of American pet.
Their kids were Beefy-broth mix
of scabs & dirt.
They were the hardy children
of Jim Bowie, of Daniel Boone,
of Abraham Lincoln-
These kids of the 1800s
wrapped in aluminum-foil,
put in the fridge, forgotten about,
then de-thawed in 1983.
We would get so lost in
the woods that any sign of civilization,
a bike-track, a beer-bottle, a telephone-line,
was a blessing.
And when we’d find a dirt-road
or trail, we’d have a sense of
great relief
& gut-punch disappointment.