the road

Roads. Like nerves and

copper twisted pairs

scraped by razors, life,

a fall on the sidewalk.

bulldozers, yellow as bananas.

and no silk, smooth or raw

the drone of a dial tone

after the click.

I could scratch them on the wall

unsmoothed by age or sentiment

smeared with policies or poems, 

the crumbs of the world

on the teeth of it's maw.

The road has gas stations

in her navel, and rest stops with

a designated shitting area for dogs

It’s a fast lane movie:

signs on scraps of plywood say:

owl boxes, well drilling, fresh eggs,

baby goats for sale,

and billboards evangelize:

the bible, good as gold.

and everywhere the offer,

se venda su casa, pronto.

Bouldered hills and orange groves,

faded words on stucco:

ice, meat, liquor, gas

Just give me sun and nectar, please.

I turn left on Avenue three thirty two.

my Uncle Bill the cowboy

lives down at the end

i haven't seen him since

......... I don't know.

He comes in from the rain

and hangs his barn coat and hat outside

they smell like cow manure and fur.

We drink black coffee

and talk about picking cotton and grapefruit,

how they tear up your hands.

He says white folks don't pick anymore

and talks about the trip he took

with grandpa Smith, his daddy,

back in '44 when he was ten.

How they drove all the way

to Oklahoma in a dented truck

with the driver's side door missing.

While we talk, the television’s tuned

To a stock car race in Tennessee

and my cousin Kurt comes in

and praises his gentle Brahma cows.