Every Car Sounds Different

Every car sounds different

[distancing] and still distinct

she is driving while talking on the phone

Aproach of the coach—dreaming of a dram on the couch and reading the sofa—at least that

gentleman was—and see here another bedraggled man-youth just burning and yearning for a new

car silent with stealth or noisy with a roaring motor to put the rest to shame:

every car on the road produces a distinct sound

distances can be measured by sound

as is an oasis in the desert

or a clearing in the deepest jungle

so is a city park, flush with spring flowers and a plot of trees and grass

Root-bound in walkways—great knot of side-steps [all roads leading]

Setting the Trends—

world massing

presence-makers of the glow-worm’s ocular buzz—

bathed and raised in artificial lightscapes

where stars though invisible behind the glare

dance in audible suite

hearing escapist Titles

LIKE ANTS FROM THE TOP

Free-Range Humans and their cage of eggs crowd the belabored supermarket belly big with

squirming Earthlings past the populist defeudalization

From the Top of Skyscrapers was one other such escapist title:

subtitled “Peak Hour” [or Sunset Trip: “Happy Hour”]

ether way

the earthlings look like ants down below

a supermarket job befits it

you could say—I’ve got to find another job HIT THE ROAD and so, moving on...

only dreaming of the dolphins’ path/

the whale-road

the fortune cookie says hit the road jack really meant I need another job

ON THE ROAD [again]

this just can’t go on [is the heroic response]

but why could he not just drift from job to job, from library to library, settling in a humble bed,

owning no books but reading them all, having no career but mastering every skill: wasn’t this the

handyman’s path to sagehood?

here they are walking all over me, I get the worst shifts I’ve forgotten about school and

I’ve learned to do and see everything I can in such a place, which although it’s next to nothing, is still

the kernal and basis of our consumerist conglomerate, I’m still its parasite

Sunset Vapor: wow, eternal pines in the permagreen path, even here, in a park

ON THE RIGHT PATH

blackened Industrial Landscape

Leavings of the Commercial Revolution’s merger with the post-Information Age was aging and the

ages were piling hi 2 the skie, ripe with hopes and misgivings

to us the leavings

this was now beyond metals but still dependent upon metals, basis for all such framework and

wiring

[going the wrong way down a One-Way Street]

high to the sky

the atomic toadstool effect

of a strong summer sunset

on the particulate in the industrial air, seen in the shifting vapors, something like soot, layer by layer,

magisterial, more mysterious than mist, but not a zephyr?

there are zones of windflow unfelt down here which buffet the cloud forms towards the witness

from within that zone of its airshell; big swaths of light were shrouded in cloud and then alternately

lit with noon gildings only to morph and vanish in twisted dispersal and absorption

zones of windfall flowing unfelt by us which folds into itself and the airways

The Road Less Travelled: “Really Watching the Twilight”

staring into the sunset vapors and

directly into the reddening and growing sphere of the sinking sun

unblinded

(branded a red circle on the back

of closed eyelids)

which whether it was a kind of idle navel-gazing or not—you decide—but the ephemera of the

layers of particulate vapor and the waves the vast colors they took were shifted out of their tubes or

pillows of billow and flattened into pink-orange and purplish nebulae lined with silver,

clouds are slowly being pulverized and scattered

slowly fading into a neutral indigo greying

over the darkening pines planted in the sooty industrial landscape of outskirts

[the fortune-cookie said this would be important]