with the band

on the i-5 again;

this time

at a rest

stop near Auburn,

WA.

 

i don’t

have to use

the honey

bucket so i stand

among the prone

bodies of

motorcyclists passed

out sleeping in the sun,

defeated by their

sunday afternoon

drive.

 

i listen

to the steady

roar frothing

from the interstate

highway like a

pot boiling over

like a war on

something or other,

and washed

in that horrible

ripping sound

i can picture each

of the trillions

of tiny explosions

amounting to this

single death

rattle, each

piston

in each engine

in each car

a tiny Cain

acting out its tiny

violence again

and

again.

 

i wish

they had decided

to piss

at a gas

station instead, so

i could

at least

listen to the sad

music

of this slow

erupting volcano

with a

cheap

beer.