I literally scribbled this into my notebook while driving north from Los Angeles on the San Jose leg of the voyage: not a driving technique I recommend. Congratulations fellow denizens of the road who avoided hitting me as I swerved into your lane…you can now call yourselves patrons of the arts…philanthropy at its finest. Anyways, here’s what the road does to a writer’s warbled mind…

The Moon shone silver on spilled venom;

A light at the break of a tragedy,

The circumference of which was absent

             of marrow

                          but rife

                                      with mystic melodies.

She was neither within it, nor apart:

Merely a sound wave

      a metered chasm of meaning

       that sifted hearts out

                   and kept worlds apart.

But of her powers she was unaware.

No, she merely caked the clay

         and let them play.

And on her soil they’d inevitably trip and fall,

        skin their knees

        and look to her for blame.

Since it’s always harder to be the hand that holds,

To wake each night

        and wipe away one’s own cold sweats,

        spouted from nightmares

                    of responsiveness and yearning.

Each waking hour

             grip slipping all the more

                            until all palms are outstretched and sore.

Holding nothing

Knowing nothing

Wanting none.