The Blue Angel's Death Song

The Interstate

No one is listening
to that sound we made
that played on the brief
and tender under-belly of the
FM band. It goes with a thud
and waves goodbye, making it's
exit in a beaten up van of
the most middle quality.

I'm not going to say goodbye to
the interstate veins that lead me
to you and you and you.
I want to see the inky darkness
of Donner Pass and the open
dawn spill out at the bottom.

It's good thing, here,
with all our friends.
The yard is the same
with them crowding in.

It's the sound of wheels
approaching, air settling
around the structure,
gravity making its point.

Sunday

In this sleepy place,
news travels at a violent pace.

Every night is a carnival, an ongoing funeral.

Street corners make an empty landscape
light changes colors to an empty curb
Sunday morning settles down
on a high mountain desert town.

A heavy head and a chest of regret,
The last thing you remember
was making a bet that you could follow the
meteor until it hit, but it was just
truck lights reflecting on the side of a house.