spittle

at this hour
the voice of my mother in my head
mutters
only madmen and murderers
walk the lonely streets

dare i venture
into the black night?

away from the fluorescent
sterile light
white walls unadorned
this thin curtain
veiling me from the outside world

even at this hour
the roar of traffic in the valley
the thrum of asphalt-eating treads
the sound of commerce and capitalism at 3 in the morning
my fellow insomniacs
racing down the interstate
pupils fixed and dilated
hopped up on meth and coke

caffeine crystallizes in our veins
burning from the inside
like shards of glass
scraping brain
rasping at the heart

without the music, I would've gone mad hours ago.

me, there is no destination
just killing time
burning away like the dead chapparal on the hill
incandescing in an arsonist's fantasy
of fire and fucking
(And the LORD spoke to Moses)

the hours begin to stretch
the end which you so desperately need to reach
but are inconceivably afraid of
you taste the iron-salt tang of blood and sweat
acid rising into your throat
zeno mocks you with every half-length you close
and still the ocean, still the southern frontier
like a testicle crushing strip-tease
revolutions thundering, exploding
slamming the gas down with the rage of three thousand miles gone by
the fiery madness of regret and lost chances

still you're rolling this stone up that goddamn hill