Psychic Driving

To hell with the price of gas and street light cameras,
I'll pass right through towns like these, through
clusters of restaurant chains and convenience stores,

Going nowhere fast, no seat belt or insurance
with the abandon of someone of who's discovered
the parade of marketing strategies psychic
driving to the center of what motivates us basically.

A fractal glistens in the rear view mirror.
I swing by the Teriyaki House but it's been leveled.
In the parking lot graffiti on the dumpster
is strangely appealing with the wabisabi
decay of rain and bird shit.

A Miles Davis quote from the seventies
skips on the CD player.

I make my way through Vietnam Town,
cross the bridge, in and out of other cars,
into a residential neighborhood toward
the kid with a split level home, a beat box
and a prayer flag above his door.

I offer him a poem and he disintegrates
from the unkempt lawn.

Back down the driveway, exhaust, fresh road;
I head toward the amber horizon the ghost
of what transpired psychic driving
well into the night.

The CD skips
all night.