A Ford Focus drives down the highway.
Tail lights and magnifying glass. You sent her pictures. Of you skating on the ice. The frozen lake at dawn. While business suits and "good mornings" surrounded us. But the eyes, so bent with secret. Dragons coursing on the interior, in the logic of computers, in binary. Matriarchal reflection, gaze and touch, she was not anywhere near the inner sanctum. At that time. At that certain moment in time.
Of last night. That reminds me distinctly of last night. She was waiting for. Chinese food. (I put the period on purpose to stop as in telegram. As if in telegraphing rhythm I telegram A letter. A typescript letter and now I am lost. Forgot.) In parking lot metal and rubber behind she saw behind glass a man lifting weights. He was working so hard, he looked in pain. Struggling so hard with those machines. As we all do, struggle so hard with the machine our legs growing tired. And her, drawing in the darkness of our secrets, of our lust. Our binary lust. Drawing in the darkness of our secrets, lying lazily all the time.
Lying lazily all the time singing illusory song into microphone, watching TV. Into microphone on TV trite song and flesh. The strumming of a guitar when fingers dislodged from body. Fingers dislodge from body and become meaningless. Satellites again in the waste of this age. The miracle of this age. Samadhi and old myth, misunderstood, satisfying a romantic place in mind among piston and wiper. Windshield wiper broken and the psychology of eyes. She separated from others, the gaze and touch, the trauma of no-trauma. The belief in polystyrene as potent as a star. Polystyrene more potent than star. The light in eye.
The light in eye behind steam. Locomotive roaming and dependent origination flowing freely into our luck. She caressed an apple in the palm of my hand. My handwriting became clear and small, as I wore jackets. Machines spun wool-like substance, bombs covered the earth. A wall of information and control. Control of airwaves. Hezbollah and Bush. Hands down each other’s pants along the information super-highway. Intellectual Jihadists jacked off CIA operatives. Newspapers in real print sold copies and there were pretty pictures. In black and white heart attacks and remote explosive devices. She took the myth of turbans and turned it into the impotency of America. Inside America. Politics being so big it seems real. It seems real but country music. Nixon's eyes meet Merle Haggard and cowboy boot. Billboards along congested highway, rusting car outside Chicago.
She read Frank O'Hara amidst draining eyelid of melancholy and her head was ice she could not think. Her addictions were getting the best of me, or so it seemed. I would sleep during the day while others looked at computer screens and Googled. She then flipped my uselessness outward and sat upon a rock. Amid thistle and ditch weed, cars rolling by. There were new cars and old cars. Cars with stickers. Stickers of dealerships. Dealership logo lit up
along side of highway at night. Me sleeping during the day. She was paralyzed. She couldn't move.
