driving
On long roads between places of small importance, the land sleeps deeply but dreams with a fervour that keeps me awake. The road runs side by side with the river, the river runs beneath the loaded stomachs of the clouds. In the river must lie bodies and bones, the fish must swim between the ribs and breed behind the eyes. I would like to lay down there, alive, in the silt – ribs still webbed and working skull – firing bullets at the undulating roof. ‘Look at the jumping fish!’ they would say on the bank. People on the bank with dogs and sticks, see them - dress them however you would like. ‘Look at the fish, jumping at the sun!’ They would walk on, happy to have witnessed the genuine exuberance of nature. One of the people would know that what he had seen was not jumping fish, but he would not know that they were bullets – who would? Do guns even work underwater? Do jumping fish even live in rivers? He would know that they were too small to have been fish and he would keep that to himself. I would emerge later, probably at evening, and dry myself by running in a field.
It is comforting to know that all of these roads can only lead to more America. There are deer up ahead on the verge, I pass slowly, looking at their feminine hooves. The deer look back, expressionless and hard, making me feel stupid for my interest - making me know that I have lived so little as to still be shocked by living things. I’ve spent too long in the city. Now there are some buildings in sight, maybe farm buildings – too large and windowless to be homes. I pass them. They are homes. Large, windowless homes. Some men stand at the gate; dusty, bulky men that you get the sense will never, ever die. I would like to stand amongst them, gently kicking pebbles at the thick rubber of their boots. They would accept me and I would physically grow, the world would shrink like a pupil in the sun. God would emerge from the windowless home with an ugly baby on her jutting hip. The night would come and nowhere on earth would it be light. I would park my truck on the gravel and hang my keys on the hook in the hall. I would walk into my kitchen, the tiled floor would be cold but I would feel nothing through the thick rubber of my boots.
