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Guest Room by a Highway, 1985
Nights I lay inside graceless walls pocked with unspoken fevers, slim figure lodging an urge to go. Cars passed at speeds I measured by my longing, speeds I didn’t know I’d ever need. The sound began high, fields away, widened at approach, and then passed fast, growing deep, until it faded from my ear, filling other rooms, entering other worlds. I was learning about comings and goings, unpredictability and indifference. I suspected that the night I wished to race into went on forever; that those drivers pushed hard toward where they would never arrive, creating a Doppler effect of desire relative to obligation, and that each destination would at last appear unrecognizable, as velocity itself births unstoppable and limitless replications of need and exhaustion. Only acceleration was absolute. I lay still in the dark by the highway hypnotized by the tenacity of it; interstates slamming onto turnpikes, highways slicing boulevards, and streets grinding down into lanes, the whole grid an impenetrable network of infinite possibilities; prodigal comings going unnoticed, the goings starless and unhelmed, while out there in the night someone gathered speed on a road relative to my own, and a function of the terrifying scarab-like molting of then into now, and then next; into then, now, next… Back
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