Drunk Directing Traffic at the Intersection of Time and Space
No sooner had I lowered myself
down into that dark well
of ghost echos and distant whale squeak
than I was the poor boy of every
sad blues and honky-tonk song,
thumb out, on the Lost Highway
and a long, long way from home,
a lonesome stranger trying to
hitch a ride to ever-stranger lands
(and other Parts Unknown, as well).
I was Hank and Lefty,
Kerouac and Cassidy,
Quixote and Sancho.
I wore the fabled hubcap
diamond-star halo and red shoes
that were the envy of every angel
(and devil alike).
I made mid-night raids
on The Garden of Earthly Delights.
I stole Death’s pale, raggedy horse
and sold it to a traveling gypsy circus.
I directed traffic at the intersection
of Time and Space.
I rode bitch between a mega-church minister
and a street-corner preacher.
I got drunk on nine kinds of hellfire
and nearly died in a duel
over a one-legged ballerina.
I called out to you through
the dark winter forest of static
at the end of the A.M. radio dial,
waking you in the middle of the night.
If not for the alarm clock
pinching my ear with its
sharp, bony fingers,
I might not have ever
made it back.
Jason Ryberg is the author of seven books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box of loose papers that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel and a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is a also an aspiring b-movie actor. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri with a rooster named Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe. Feel free to look up his skirt at jasonryberg.blogspot.com/.
No sooner had I lowered myself
down into that dark well
of ghost echos and distant whale squeak
than I was the poor boy of every
sad blues and honky-tonk song,
thumb out, on the Lost Highway
and a long, long way from home,
a lonesome stranger trying to
hitch a ride to ever-stranger lands
(and other Parts Unknown, as well).
I was Hank and Lefty,
Kerouac and Cassidy,
Quixote and Sancho.
I wore the fabled hubcap
diamond-star halo and red shoes
that were the envy of every angel
(and devil alike).
I made mid-night raids
on The Garden of Earthly Delights.
I stole Death’s pale, raggedy horse
and sold it to a traveling gypsy circus.
I directed traffic at the intersection
of Time and Space.
I rode bitch between a mega-church minister
and a street-corner preacher.
I got drunk on nine kinds of hellfire
and nearly died in a duel
over a one-legged ballerina.
I called out to you through
the dark winter forest of static
at the end of the A.M. radio dial,
waking you in the middle of the night.
If not for the alarm clock
pinching my ear with its
sharp, bony fingers,
I might not have ever
made it back.
Jason Ryberg is the author of seven books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box of loose papers that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel and a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is a also an aspiring b-movie actor. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri with a rooster named Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe. Feel free to look up his skirt at jasonryberg.blogspot.com/.