words to keep calm (songs without fear)
keeping us alive,
raw earth god-smell
the bar of soap on the sink in the gas station bathroom.
reflectors scatter across loose lines
staircasing it down and over along highways
baby mountains and big green surrounding
and ears popping,
swallowing the distance and the fear
tiny snippets of a town in the valley through the trees
eyes forward, southwest forever.
we came down empty from the north and fill up with our debris
shit artifacts of america,
car becomes cave.
inching closer to the pulse
to a sudden vastness of cemeteries and ranches
like arms around me, warm burnt dirt homecoming
dreams of stepping down boot-first.
on a gas station national tour
if i want to sing.
feet first friendly love, become the provider.
it’s about me but not,
it’s about feeling the distance
feeling the newness without fear, blazing right through
jamming across america collecting its relics
like seventeen bottles of half-empty and half-full diet cokes,
the women who all look the same in tennessee
the vacant rooms.
and tiny flashes through the trees that dash past,
of a town in the valley.
everything tinted by sky or
the blue sheer jersey knit of someone’s hammock
strung from cliffs
palely shadowing everything and those tiny people.
their church and their shops,
their very own gasoline museums
where shiny bags of doodles and air crinkle under false light,
dilapidated bar of soap just grimes there
melts and grimes away.
burnt dirt like a hug wraps.
raps a new tune to sing without fear:
place never entered, where i’ve always been.
(c) 2010 Rachel Greenfield / Gasoline Museums
Posted in poetry, road