The Place Where I Am Going

THE PLACE WHERE I AM GOING

I stand at a gas station

numbers spin past like the pennies I toss out the window

they are massless

Just minutes before

the hacked passage of time was metered simultaneously

by the speedometer, 120 mph,

and the length of the ash

at the tip of my slow-to-pass

cigarette.

Blurred straight lines and in the foreground

are the muscae volitantes that dance

before my blood-red visual receptors.

Smoke hangs in the 120 mph air that is

my immediate reference frame.

Caffeine, nicotine, adrenaline,

oxygen, carbon (mon and di) oxides

slowly musky sweat lingers on my skin

and clothes and the hushed rush of my passing 120 mphs swish

4000 rpm, 40 psi compressed

in rubber suspended from

shock absorbers bolted to the frame

supporting the six degrees of freedom harness

in which I am comfortably strapped.

Pressing forward past time and through space represented

by a blip on the road atlas that inches northward and each second

tick-ticks as if it were the last

but the next one comes like a surprise that is not expected but

accepted

160 lbs. into the seat and a few calories are exerted

on the accelerator

my callous-pinched grip rotates an inch

which translates to feet through

hydralically-assisted rotary shaft motion

I cross the whites flashes that I know are dashes dividing

the road

The pumping bass of the aforeunacknowledged music is fast paced,

about one half as frequent as the rotating of the

motor that is eight cylinders

eight combustion chambers exploding

the fuel-air injected mixture

with precise sparks that

divide the black air

so quickly that it smacks back together

reverse the vision like after you stare at

the sun too long you have to

try and see around the burnt hole in the center

of your eye

The spark is so orange it’s white

and probably a million times as bright

as the burning paper ring

that tells me all the tobacco and tar and nicotine from my cigarette are

ashen.

I press a button

and a servo lowers the glass

shielding at my left and the

rush is loud enough cold enough

to drown out the music and my thoughts and I placed the filter

tip of my cigarette carcass between

my pointer finger bent against my

thumb in a position that is OK

and I flick her out, at least I think I flick her out because she

disappears, vanishes. Intuition tells

me she is behind me somewhere

either at 0 mph on the road or

at 120 mph

in my back seat. The button goes the other way

and the cabin is complete

again a little cooler and the music

retains his backseat in

my consciousness and I breathe

deep through my nose

to test for smoke fumes

that would signal the event of

my fear that the dead cigarette

filter that I kissed moments ago

is laughing behind my back

I realize that I have probably covered or at least skimmed over

miles since I last recognized

the pavement over which I am speeding

to get to the place where I am going.