fiction, most entirely

so we stand there
demolished by the dawn
and we think
this is a sublime moment,
this one lasts

pale and bleary eyed
but aware in the chill
wet breeze that kicked up
just before the sunrise to
pull the cheap tobacco smell
away from our jackets and make
us taste the new season
growing green or dying off
for all the difference that should make
right now it isn't much

fatigue coursing through us
(water through one beat up running shoe)
ask us our names and if we even hear you
we'll start
and still make sure you spoke before we answer

but we're seeing things anyway
because we've got no other choice
distractions ceased to signify
three counties back

some fool paid two point four million dollars
for the manuscript of on the road
i read kerouac once and didn't like it much
but i could see sometimes what he was reaching for

sure as hell we're beat
right now; if this isn't
that exalted state of exhaustion
that produces visions
nothing ever was

and we might wake that blanketrolled shape in the back seat
but her face asleep is enough that we speak low
and careful

none of the people i've ever loved
— who listened,
stretched out on kansas driveways
while lightning played the sky for crazy;
said just hold it in as long as you can;
knew i wasn't saved;
spoke and struck me ringing silent;
played three-a.m. piano into my voicemail;
waited 'til somehow i could move —
are here right now

but communion comes where it will
and with whom.

p1k3 / 2003 / 2 / 4 / fiction