Tales from the Chevy
by Dylan Terman
i. 90-miles-Outside-of-Sacramento Blues
Bugs
splat against my windshield,
The quick and dull
pitter-pattering
of their tiny bodies exploding,
The mind-shattering
velocity at which they collide
against my Chevy and
Whaddya know?
Guts and flies
are all my eyes
can see.
5 miles outside of one shithole town
or another and Yeah!
I’d rather fly!
Avoid the pests and
supposedly providential people,
who, in spite of their
Jesus-Loves-You bumper stickers
And Hallelujah Hands a-waving,
are performatively pious
and wouldn’t stop to help
some poor lost soul
on his journey to fix a tire,
much less lead him towards
some eternal salvation
and - anyways -
are almost altogether nonexistent
as I pulse thru their towns
at 90 plus,
Praying to get to something
somewhere on the other side.
Drunk with boredom
Drenched in fly guts
is how I spend my time
Alone,
nodding off and nowhere-bound.
But the splat of the bugs
is rhythmic, if not constant,
and all I’ve ever wanted
lay just beyond
my dusty reach.
ii. Somewhere Over the 101
Rolling along an empty highway
with only wind’s whispers
to placate the solitude
When all at once she flows seeping
from the molten horizon,
where blonding hills meet dusking sky.
Beak of summering sunshine,
talons of wintery silver.
Sweet-cream head blends
with midnight body
of caramel bronze.
She floats, steadfast,
ahead of my gaze.
Her dagger eyes cut deep,
pierce me
Unwavering
and she is the Earth.
Rolling with the mounds of gilded green,
surfing through a dark tidal sky.
And she is the Stars and the Sun
and the Moon shimmering gently,
careful not to disturb
the dreaming valley below.
And the world is static
and life unflinching, in this instant,
her holy wings
not lending an octave
to the whispering wind.
And then she is dust,
ascended into the atmosphere
behind me,
and I am miles,
Miles away.