I dragged my father through
the cemetery gates.
The hoof marks were wiped away
by the drunkard’s bloated weight.
His pockets held some dirt,
and paper black with plans.
His dead eyes hid their goal –
tires on tin cans.
I built the chassis up,
used Dad’s old whiskey bottles,
fueled it with desert sand –
a horse bone for the throttle.
So, come on!
Let’s kick the engine on!
The wagonmen and riders turn and stare.
Screaming through the empty roads,
burning the town gates, and I don’t care!
So, let’s go!
A herd of buffalo!
Sticky red explosions hurtle past,
the sand goes fluid under wheels,
the metal circles melt out strings of glass!
Well, good Lord!
What’s that I’m racing toward?
There’s no more shaking, and I can barely steer.
Roll the windows just in time,
I can’t see a thing,
and the whole of the sky just appears…
This close to the moon,
not sure which I’ll see:
tentacles or tumbleweeds
writhing around me?
On the windowpane
thumbs and hair collide.
It’s just the Earth and angels
lingering outside.
One hand on the doorknob,
I stop and choose the stay,
imagining lungs and frozen blood
drifting off away…
What would father think
down there in the grass,
of me, up here in his car,
stepping on the gas?
His folks years are over,
the desert will be paved!
An angel swings by in the mirror,
smiles at me, and waves:
“Turn around, turn now!
We can go back to the plow!
No one else can build these gears,
if you forget how.
“Come now, come back!
What if the windows start to crack?
Drive yourselves to bottled beers,
not out the black!”
How about if I leave?
Leave people as they are?
The world’s not long for fresh frontiers,
so say “farewell” to motorcar.
Come on, say “farewell” to motorcar,
say “farewell.”
Say “farewell.”
Say “farewell.”
Come on, “farewell” to motorcar.