Joyriding to Iron Maiden on Bremen Back Roads

They say your knuckles are suppose to turn white,

But mine were red. If I were some wicked runaway

Driving through the desert, my hair would fly backwards

But I was a punk teenager who believed his heart

Was shattered so my hair blew to the side. I wouldn’t

Have been going fast enough until I could imagine

My rotary engine transformed into a black hole.

90.

The tires become maelstroms along with the ringing

Of snares, cymbals, and screeching voices,

Just as the yellow dotted lines become one and

The white fence of the Country Club transforms into a wall.

The beams from streetlights become stars in hyperspace.

Our arms were out the windows, gripped to the roof,

One side winter winds stinging, other side panting sweat

Down our veins jolting out in hope that they might not

Experience what comes from a single skid.

100.

Your Mandarin was heavy when you said,

“Misfortunes will add to your bank of fortitude.”

A slight drift erupted as we skidded onto 78 towards Temple.

I recall glancing over through my dry, bloodshot eyes,

Exposing a grin as a bit of blood from my tongue

Seeped out, I said, “She was a cheating bitch.”

Looking up through your aviators that reflected

The waning crescent moon and the cigarette smoke

From loud colored mint green trailers we

passed, you said, “That’s what I said.”

110.

The highway acted like a serpent,

As we sped down its slick neck

The floorboard seemed to sink toward

Its scales and a burning wafted

but I was distracted when my ears

started popping more loud than “22 Acacia Avenue”

The car began to hover like a club next to a golf ball,

Breathing up and down, you held up one finger

Only one finger, my foot launched off the pedal

And I watched 127 fade into the realm of rationality again.

There was a stoplight that you got out at

On the right gleamed a green and purple

Light for “Jones’ Barbecue.” And ahead there

Was this bright white sign for gas.

The colors clashed with the red light to

Create a stained glass mural inside my RX-8,

except for the tiny Baptist church to the left that had

no light from it at all, it was plastered with small metal

Christmas decorations in its lawn, reindeer prancing next

to Mary and Joseph as they watched over the sacred baby.

And as you walked away toward the left, I noticed

The yellow dotted lines were still one, at least here.

— Alex H