by Ian Hughes
crossed at el paso
cruising north on 85
radio on real country.
we stopped once in
cruces at the brew-
thru and armed with turkey
sublime and chaser we veered—
veered, as in we wheel spun
the truck—onto old 52.
that’s 85 from the line
(or 10 to 25)
and past T and C, and then
a hard dirt left.
on the map it was called a
road, but it wasn’t so
much as dried mud tracks ‘cross
cratered moon. the big
empty we called it, and
took drinks.
her hand on my leg
pressing hard
we sure are haulin’
ass, now, she’d say and
whoop, and squeeze, and
press. albuturkey bound
where things soon spun
apart and where my
heart, drained and dry,
was left back there
in dust and desert.
eternity is
nothing to shoot for. get
yourself onto old 52 and tell
me I’m wrong. meanwhile,
angels get feathered wings, and
when they do they
fly off into very large arrays
of white and blue
[typography font=”Droid Sans Mono” size=”9″ size_format=”px”]Originally from western Maryland, I.S. Hughes has called Seattle home for the past 17 years. He is currently a student at Bellevue College and works at the college radio station, KBCS, as producer and host, where he has figured out how to get paid to listen to dusty old albums.[/typography]