through and above the rigid
scope of the great Deliverer,
I-94, or, the yellow brick road;
I am ceaseless on its belt,
carving an unrelenting path
past casket cars,
and roadside stars,
past the truck drivers
making 36 cents a mile,
past the deer that have
been lying there awhile,
towards endless worlds of water,
flying down the dream highway,
the all-american attempt
to drown my tedious torments of today.
But now I peer into my coffee
blacker than all desire,
with eyes in far-off ecstasy,
conjuring an autumn stage
so busy with songs
that are yet to be written,
so busy with characters
that are yet to be broken.
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