Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

These days
are like highways,
careening along,
we ride the
grey planks,
divided by bright,
overpainted,
lily-white lines.

Anymore,
I ignore,
stupid, lanky,
asinine,
speed limit signs.
I whisper to myself,
shut up words
on metal poles!

You fucking silent,
flaring,
nostrils of the road,
shut up.
I wrote you,
paid for you,
became spellbound
by you.

But no more.
Not today.
Because I don't believe in you,
those holy ethers
of your thou,
oh inanimate rulers,
of my roads,
you lie.

You cheat,
you entitle,
you kill,
until I have no choice,
but to unbuckle everything,
take a chance,
make a stance,
a case of drive or die,

trusting that you
will disappear,
into the sulphurous,
bellowing velocity
I'm leaving behind,
never to be seen,
or so poorly written,
again.

Nothing to do with your poem
but it is a strange thing to be looking at the back side of those higway signs.
please excuse this ramble
but that was a powerful piece of writing hester
I know it is about more than the road
but for me there was only the road

hammer hammer dear hester.

west bound in
the east bound lanes
tunnel vision
staring straight ahead
death grip on the wheel
and those little reflectors
that glow yellow in the head lights
are all glowing red.
a sense of something is wrong
and panic sets in.
and the grill of a Peterbilt looms
large in the windshield
highway hypnosis
and rude awakenings

a hell of a way to commit suicide
but that is what they say.
and that is how he became
a retired truck driver.

rode a motorcycle
over the road
and the grinding cycle
of having to drive drive drive
and pressing heavily to drive
faster faster faster
leaned into what felt like wind but was really motionless atmosphere
against which smacked tight facial skin
and leaned forward into the smack
high on smack
higher higher higher
and when the motorbike couldn't hike up any
more more more
let go
and vault over the handles
front tire
asphalt
ass vaulted like a smack against the motionlessness
and free flight
slower, but feeling faster than anything
freer than anything
and scraping against the rough skin
black body
lilywhite boundaries
broken yellow directions
reflective teeth
the long scraping felt like something
something assuring
not an accident of nothingness

alright, yeah, that's what i'm talkin about....
get in, leadfoot it with me on down this thread....
VVVAAAAVAAAAVAAAVVAAAAAVoom
come on, get in,
hitchhikers more than welcome here....

Thanks you guys, Still, and Joel, for driving with me.
I love it!
I really do!
H

your write like you sing, hester
dotted eights and sixteenths
measure by measure
you are a treasure

(I would be honored if one day you would cover one of my tunes)

I'm embarrassed to say I don't even know what dotted eighths and sixteenths are!
Those words up there, felt like big rocks falling out of my head though, is it sorta like that? heh.
Anyway, I'd be thrilled to cover any song of yours anytime El Rod. I mean, hell , who wouldn't be!
Keep me in mind....and thank you.
H

nice!!

hester_prynne wrote:felt like big rocks falling out of my head

Driving through the Poconos
Ma told stories passing time.
She read road signs on the shoulder –
Indian Apocrypha –
"Watch For Falling Rock"—she read –
Indian Apocrypha –
Told about a brave young man:
Home he called the Poconos,
Fled the White Man round-up life.
So the White Man called for death
And the White Man chased the brave
And he vowed to find his death,
Turn for profit Poconos.
"Watch for Falling Rock." And he
Lifted eyes unto the hills.
Indian Apocrypha
Told about a brave young man;
"Falling Rock" she called his name.
Falling Rock, his eyes drew up
unto hills, the Poconos—
To the rock-hewn Poconos,
To the rock of Poconos,
Rock Redeemer—and he prayed –
Indian Apocrypha –
"Falling Rock is called my name,
Living free among these hills,
Never going far away,
Reservation lived without,
Loving you and needing love.
Fall now rocks for Falling Rock,
Crush those foes who call for death."
And he pushed the rocks around
From those summits to the ground;
Mighty Falling Rock was found
Thwarting deadly hunters' paths,
But the brave was never seen –
Indian Apocrypha –
So the White Man raised the signs
All along the hunting paths
Leading through the Poconos:
"Watch for Falling Rock"—they read,
Falling Rock still falling free.
Ma told stories passing time
Driving through the Poconos –
Indian Apocrypha.

Gasp!
I love that!!!!!
It made me gasp!
Joel, you rock!
H

Pun unintended!