Jotted Up.

I watch the power lines
as they march into the sunrise
opposite the way I am headed
from my rear view mirror
as i drift into the left lane
I think of where i was about to be
where I am going to have been
the road stretches out behind me to where the guidelines
meet the vanishing point
which is not a point at all
I am driving on the wrong side of the road
this is clear
the honking doesn't bother me
I am used to the noise.
my mind wanders again
takes a hike.
in 200 some odd days
I will leave the twp
feigning bravery and confidence
knowing only that things have changed
with no reference point
no guidelines
no training wheels
or elbow pads
or wrist guards
or stupid helmets.
I will run as fast as i can away from the only thing that has ever felt safe
towards what I know is the only thing that will make me feel free
in between is a dotted line as straight as it is narrow
I am naked and helpless
I love it.
but I will slow down, I fear
I will look back, as I always do
what if
what about
how will
I can't
and there I am again
going 50 on 22
watching the power lines pass my church
driving home from work
in my rear view mirror
drifting into the left-

and this time they

(it)

hit(s) me

and air bags deploy
and sense is knocked into me
and I'm head first through a windshield
I shatter first
the last thing i see before I black out
is the exit sign

and my head snaps back to the front
and I'm back in through the windshield
and the glass bleeds through my skin
painfully healing wounds
my head is on straight
the air bags deflate
my eyes are open again
and I am driving
towards the place where my guidelines vanish
where I am stripped of my burdens
and recreated
an innocent man
and a man meant for good things.

I was being silly.
The power lines aren't moving at all.





=





Eric puts on his gloves
grabs the gas can.
he is shirtless
and November is unfriendly.
he cannot see a foot in front of him
the dry air is opaque.
he makes his own light.
it is 3 am.
no one is awake in this town.
no one is ever, really.
he stumbles around in the dark
he doesn't mind it.
he will see soon.
they will see soon enough.

punishment.
crime, punishment.
he is vengeful, righteous.
he tells himself stories
to help him sleep
he is pouring his hate
his justice
on the foundation.

he is soaking in it.

the smell is intoxicating
heady.
reminds him of when he used to trip sometimes.
when he used to smoke.
before things got bad.
and after they did.
he fingers the lighter in his hand.
he turns it over again and again.
weighing it
and the possibilities.

is this the last one?

no, it never is.

They'll find out.

they haven't yet.

fuck you.

hey, fuck YOU.


a snap of his wrist
a light, hope.
a guide.
he tosses it at the wall

he stands there for a moment
fascinated by the glow
wondering for a moment
where he went wrong
how to get right.
but then his convictions

You are right.
You must run.
They are coming.
They are bad.

simple, black and white.

not like him.

doors slammed in his face
impurity
not welcome
he lived in fear of expectation
imperfection
living up to some standard
the bar was being raised
and he had not yet been given a chance to reach it

the way that that place had changed
the way that it was before
he was welcome.
but restrictions grew tighter
and people became less affectionate
he was gutted
grilled
made to feel like a criminal
a blemish
removed from the perfect visage

excommunicated.

Eric is crying.

Please.

Eric is letting the hate wash him clean. he is dumping it all over him.

Forgive me

Eric is taking the largest breath his lungs will allow.

Father

Eric is running as fast as he can.

For I have sinned.

Eric is running into the church.




there are sirens.

they are far away.

there is an alter.

it is closer to him than he has ever known.





Peace.
say the 8 voices.
6 of them are his own.
one is booming.
one is quiet.


=