Driving, driving

.
It was Saturday, and me and the boy went driving.


And then, the nice relaxing drive home. (Notice the
car to the left cutting into my lane? At least he has
his signal on.) (the picture is Route 281 directly left
of the San Antonio Airport. The long bridge thing
across the road up ahead is a structure for landing
lights for the main landing strip. If a passenger jet
was landing when I took the photo, which I had
hoped for, the jet would appear about 175 ft above
the highway, and would be clearly in the picture right
above the large green highway signs.)


Isn't that what guys do on Saturday?

It's about driving, isn't it? How many hours a week do we drive? Driving is fun? Is it possible that one of the reasons art today lacks substance because our brains are being burned out with the stress of dangerous roads, the waste of time, the cost of getting here to there?

My dream is to live without driving anywhere for years. Roads are long ribbonous parking lots, aren't they? The matter is that you sit in a chair and steer the wheel through the video screen, and if you are skillful or lucky, survive.

Why can't driving be a subject for a poem?

Super-Gods

We spin the wheels of super-gods
and shade our eyes to shiny fame.
Our skill and power over mortal odds
is a defiant and impatient game.

Beloved winners and dead losers
earn magic-marker memories
on plastic-flowered crosses,
like flimsy warnings of unease.

The chancy highways leave little said
since everyone is a gazelle
who romps away while blood is red
for beasts and news reports as well.

To drive a car is one big video—
the windshield is the screen
where thumbnail views are what we owe
for time on the machine.

Driving is a seat and travel is a myth
of poster romance and sunset shows
that roll the globe to you and who you’re with
while belted in on passing roads.