by Timothy Donnelly

    Driver， please. Let's slow things down. I can't endure

    the speed you favor， here where the air's electric

    hands keep charging everything， a blur¹ of matter fogs the window

    and my mind to rub it. Don't look now， but the vast

    majority of chimpanzees on the road's soft shoulder can't

    determine： Which fascinates more， the thing per se

    or the decoration on its leaking package？ How like us， they——

    （The hand mistook me that arranged my being

    bound here， buckled². I have been mistaken， ripped

    from a wave of in-flight radio： wakened brutally³

    is brutally awakened⁴， plucked from the grip of

    "asleep on the slope of an open poppy." One has meant this

    torture for another， clearly. Do we welt the same，

    make similar whimper？ Did he take my name？ I'll take another.）

    it is the decoration. By which I mean， we have a lot

    between us. You're European， and I have been to Venice

    where the waters pave and they can't play tennis.

    Fair gondolier， it is my pleasure to confess： nor will you ever

    catch me in athletic⁵ dress， hunched⁶ waiting at the net

    for a ball knocked fast in my direction， hot with fervor⁷

    to knock it back to the opposing player. It just won't do.

    Driver， please. I have shared with you. I have become

    a person. That's supposed to make it hard to hurt me.

    The future rises， bellows⁸， wrinkles. I can't keep living

    in a cramped⁹ sedan， I won't keep living in a cramped sedan——

    though you hold the road， I'll give you that. There are

    instances of smoke and mirror， instances of shouting fire.

    Though you hold the road， I'll give you that， there are

    instances of "sticking to it" that I can't admire， and ours

    isn't an adhesion I ever expect to look back on

    wistfully. But that's for time to decide， not me.

    "Just around the corner， there's a rainbow in the sky."——

    Haven't you ever just had to believe it？ Look， if it's a cup of coffee

    you're after， I bet there's someplace brilliant up ahead.

    I bet there's someplace right around the bend. Ash in the eye

    and the nose and the mouth， shit in the pants

    and the mouth and the hand. Hound on the back

    of the hand and the lap， slap on the face of the hound and the ass¹⁰.

    Ash in the eye and the nose and the mouth， mouth

    on the nose on the face in the pants. Hound on the back

    of the hand in the lap， slap on the face of the hound

    in the ass. Ash in the eye and the nose and the mouth and

    the mouth won't stop， it comforts itself， it comforts me.

    Funny I keep on looking out the window， identifying

    even as you do this. The orchids¹¹ cry that yesterday were pollen¹²

    ground in the fuzz of dead-drunk bees. I will not submit

    to being ferried that way. Driver， please. Where to now，

    Tierra del Fuego？ There is no travel but the travel that concludes

    in shrieking¹³ with abandon， is there？ ——No. What you need

    is to remember what it felt like beforehand， that emptiness.

    Call up pictures， melodies， etc.， but part of you will resist

    that assistance， divide from it. Drag the edge of that memory——

    yes， it's more like forgetting——across that divide， until

    something like a rabbit-hole opens inside you. Vanish into the hole.

    Vanish， it is your only opportunity. It will stun¹⁴ you

    for another minute， but when the stunning¹⁵ passes， you will again

    be nowhere， nothing， and even more at peace with it.

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