I used to go out driving sometimes late into the night,
twenty-one,
* around and
wasting gas.
Across the bridge to Sheffield,
the mountain too to succumb to,
were the main streets of
time tripped to the past.
Behind the hotel grant there was a flaming
dumpster and I saw a group of Klansmen in
their robes,
a circle back.
They had vanished like rats,
leaving nothing behind them but some smoke.
So if you'd like to tell your story,
by all means go tell your story,
but don't forget
you only have one side.
So parlay your inner visions with the usual
suspicions and make your grand approach to
the divide.
And when you're changing lanes,
passing on the right,
check your blind spot,
signal your
intent.
I saw that Honda full of girls airborne into the trees,
and the pouring rain,
interstate
ten.
Used to go out driving sometimes late into the night,
trying to make sense of the pieces of my life.
Still young enough to not know how the puzzle fit together,
nothing to fall back on but a knife.
The bombed out looking factories,
east side of town,
blasting here comes a regular ten.
An epiphany,
a moment of clarity,
driving all alone at 4 a.m.
♪ Driving,
driving, driving ♪
In a van full of stink,
we set out upon the plains,
black hills,
Rockies, and Cascades.
We had never been out west,
at least not further out than Texas.
Our lives spread out before us like a page.
An unwritten novel,
our Huck Finn adventure,
come to life, we were living in real time,
that rare day,
and we just turned the music
off and let the wide open vistas fill our minds.
We were already older,
yeah,
much younger than today,
pushing hard against the limits
we had to rise,
ever westward.
We saw sunglass reflections of setting sun in vast Montana skies.
There's this alternate reality where everything is different.
A world of happy endings we endure.
A moment's distraction,
an alarm clock powered down,
a blind spot not checked before a turn.
The Grand Prix we saw head on,
on our way to see replacements
when a hydroplane but caught the road in time.
The gown,
I-10,
driving east as we were westbound,
in Florida, 2000, April 9.
That 10-degree decline headed down Teton Pass,
Cooley driving snow,
solid ice.
That meteor that fell beside our bus in Idaho
as we drove on past a near-flaming demise.
As we drove on past a near-flaming demise.
As we drove on past a near-flaming demise.
As we drove on past a near-flaming demise.