Jesus, my eyes are tired. The highway dashes
Are coercive, and slip into my mind
One zoned-out road-dream at a time. Black flashes
Of barely fluid musings hit rewind
On mental VCRs -- an obsolete
Collection of home movies and bootleg
Betamax recordings. We can't meet
My memories: seven tracks of coffee dregs
And an eighth that strains my consciousness, pressing
My eyes -- click, click, click -- you're citizens? Yes,
Americans, in fact. We're second-guessing
Our destination, and our brains digress,
Devolve, devote themselves to DNA
From older monkeys. So you drive; I'll pray.
1 comment:
Wrote this one offline last night after driving late. I knew I had to do a sonnet to keep up with National Poetry Month, so I made sure to put this together before going to bed, and then posted it today once I got some Internet.
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