a poem by Darla McBryde

Four and Twenty Flashbacks

the ghosts came out to ride shotgun
when I dragged the old trans am out of the box
hidden in the corner of the closet
camouflaged with old photographs,
red paint fading with age like my hair.
Jose Cuervo says he will pick us up at midnight
we will come down off the Caprock
outside of Notrees at two in the morning.

give it the gas baby she was built for speed
and for night trips under the full mescaline moon,
turn off the headlights let's drive old highway 80 blind
I know where all the ruts are and where this phantom
West Texas road
turns to sand and caliche bleached cactus bones
try to maintain when the coyotes
run across in front of us blinded by the dusty creosote wind.

follow the spiral path of darkness behind my eyelids
to the sandhills glowing under the black light stars
shooting up with jagged lightning time warped wormholes
stone planet galaxies magnetic blessed oak forest.

did you see the little hooded figures watching, did you
see the white wolf?
Did you see the sack people blowing down Main Street
waiting for the train carrying Elvis to cross the tracks?
Did you see me and Terry walking
down the Ft. Stockton highway going out to Frankie's house
just as the sun was coming up?

I saw me driving by in the white mustang
coming in from Los Angeles waving at Arlo
while David was in the back seat lost in a picture again.
You were sitting at the red light in your chevy nova
listening to Grand Funk
writing me a letter
mailing it to me from across the Yellow Sea.

© by Darla McBryde
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010