{new poem & hair}

appetite, one more time

the dead are hungry again. one wants to stop
at Cracker Barrel, one can’t eat seafood, one
just wants a margarita no salt at any
roadside strip joint / they interrupt the radio

with their breathing, Patsy Cline drops to static.
it’s not fair, I tell them. the smell of strawberries
is so distracting. stop stepping
on the map.

stars like toothpicks on fire.
headlights like ants in miner helmets,
going home. speed limit sign
a long tooth, mile marker
another. traffic cones a pack
of candy corns tossed (hands,
ten and two) guardrails like metal lips puckering

the dead have been hanging around
since noon. coupons
on the floor, one shoe
on the highway / it’s sad, really. their mouths
a string of Os in the backseat, the occasional flicker
as one remembers a cigarette, one
the orgasmic sting of wax on a back

I have places to be, I explain. so do we
they insist, let’s go. there’s no arguing
with the dead, they’ll wait forever against a no
or not now like dogs with no sense of time, sure
you’ve been gone for days every time the door opens

they play with the locks, roll childproof windows
down (glance briefly over your left shoulder,
to make sure no vehicle is passing) we’re not so different,
the dead and I -- (never rely on your mirrors alone)
who’s not on the run from something? (Even properly
adjusted mirrors will leave "blind spots" behind you
on both sides)

Traffic conditions change constantly. You cannot afford
to let your attention wander from what is going on around you.

the dead want a travel game, and snacks. want to know
where we’re going, when next
we’ll stop for gas / the dead will not shut up.

Always scan the road ahead. Do not use the road
or even the vehicle directly ahead as your only focal point.

lane lines squirming, a bunch of of albino caterpillars
engine smoke like steam from a lost father’s coffee
bridge like the back of an alligator stretching
tail lights a spilled barrel
of glowing tomatoes, rotten

You should be aware that the ability to see well at night
generally declines with age

asphalt puckering and unfurling, exit ramp a bullet the tires
swallow whole

the dead go quiet, crawl the front seat, start chewing
these sleeves, string after string down to this skin
and then sweet marrow yes, curled finally, reluctantly, full.

***

* some lines borrowed from the New York State Drivers License Manual (2004)

***

I'm not at all sure about the title. I think it's a placeholder. thoughts on that and the rest welcome, as always...

oh, and I got a free haircut today at a fancy salon. of course, nothing's really free: without asking, the woman cut bangs into my hair. bangs! after agreeing that she'd just "clean up" the cut I had. it's fine, but only after she was really mean to me and the salon owner came over and fixed it. I mean, I still have bangs. but at least it doesn't look so stupid.

November 3 I can shave my head again if I want to. sigh.