I am the sun. I am the sky. I am the wind. I am the whisper of the trees. I am the dancer in the dark. I am the melody that plays somewhere in the mountains, hail Carolina, hail Carolina - I'm coming home. Traffic is slow. Time is fleeting. My eyes stray to the horizon where Asheville glows with morning light.
Cigarette smoke. FM radio. Static on the airwaves.
Turn it off, sleep a while. Hold my breathe while the wheel drifts. Hummer passes by, shakes the ground; but it don't shake me, I'm made of tougher stuff, son. Someone is waiting for me over this hill. Someone is waiting for me in the city.
My father once told me that living is simple, it's everything else that makes you struggle. Money comes. Money goes. People stay. People flow. It's the moon, and the tide. It's the place, and the times. Stick a around, kick off your shoes. Stay a while. What have you got to loose? Leaving, going... it's all the same. The only difference is the distance between.
I'm alright. I'm okay. Turn the key. Start the ignition. Pistons fire, wheels spin, metal lurches forward swallowing the gravel. Beautiful day. Beautiful world. See Mother Earth in the distance, what a figure, how divine. The mountains are the most beautiful curves I've ever seen on a woman. Whistle at her, like the wolf.
The interstate is quiet, and it's loud. The dashboard is on fire, the sun is in my eyes. The morning air is cold, I'm shaking in my seat. Summer is taking its time getting here this year, but winter was late.
I am the sun wrestling night.
I am the sun wrestling day.
I am the sun. I am the sun. I am the sun.
Shining. Shining. Shining. Shining on.
This state needs some rain, the ground is starting to dry up. They say Atlanta is a desert. They say many things. The galciers are melting. Poloticians are riding their warhorses through the states. Comet's coming, say the Mayans. Jesus is coming, say the Christians. Revolution is coming, say the idealists. Ruin is coming, say the atheists. I wonder who we should believe.
I'm seeing change. Slow progress... but steps forward all the same. The oceans might be rising, the ice might be breaking, the ozone might be depleating... but maybe... just maybe, we'll see a few more good days. Like this one, here on the interstate.
I am the dagger in the sky.
I am the smoke from your mountains of fire.
I am the shadow of the wind.
I am the sand in the desert.
I am the clock ticking away...
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Poety. Poets. Poem. Poe. How are a writing desk and a raven the same? I'm not the Mad Hatter. I'm not Lewis Carol. I'm not the alias of some published writer. I'm the young man sitting at a green desk by lamp light, trying to find meaning in new metaphors. I'm the young man in the mountains, half asleep watching his dog roll over and yawn. I am so many things. I am an enigma. I am a 1994 white Ford Escort with bumper stickers and bags of laundry in my backseat. I am the trash that litters the floorboards. I am the mites in the dirty carpet. I am the gunk in the drink holders and the holes in the ceiling, and more importantly I am the leftovers of drivethru's from across the state that are slowly molding in their paper sacks... How wonderful.
Yes the interstate is a tranquil place. Yes the road is a sanctuary. A place of peace. There are accidents. Yes, there are crashes. Some die, and their blood spilled across hot pavement, but there are many others who drive by and shake their heads and look in their rear view mirrors, trying to get a glimpse at the carnage and the horror... strangely enough. Aside from the occasional misstep, yes, there is peace here. There is time to sit and think and watch the birds return from their long vacation south.
There is time to be human. There is time to be poetic. Yes. There is time.