Featured Poem 10/21/04

Head For The Hills You Cacophonous Saints

I'm driving as fast as I can. Taking the kids away for a few weeks to a
more productive, more powerful, more potent, more possible world.
Telling the sun to stay set, the dust to unsettle the ones that aren't
down, and wake the ones that won't.

We dream the highway long all night, locked at the elbows in stone
circles with new friends found screaming 'action' along affirmation's
lines. The informative way; antiquating previous lives while the rest of
the corpses avoid all that's come to past.

We get the fuck out of dodge and meet head on every pompous
landscape that decapitates lesser folk. Just me and the kids. Ready to
hold accountable the held-fast laws of tick-ridden second nature. Ready
to kill hours by compressing our erratic heartbeats into the ordained
frequencies of a different core.

We're of a different sort. Them who arrange their objects every day into
revolving triangles within which the gods desperately hold court, while
being examined by architects sick of waiting for more accurate designs.
We'll build our own: to be risen at the end of a road that continually
stretches as thin as destruction and its veil of modern necessity.

But falling off, for us, has never been an option.
We're too course                and not enough language.
We wouldn't even let you service our sun-burnt, tender lips,
lest your staunch lapse eclipse your stomach's laps and miss
completely the beauty of occasionally turning inside out, running
outside in nothing but light, jumping in our cars to leave this
monotony behind, chasing back the perfect night
and throwing down all intensity

to catch lost acquaintances Eternity and Energy
following in vain our beaten path;
wishing they could make
this much noise.

D.H. Skogen

Previous     Next

Close this window to return to previous page.