why was my driver’s licence not returned to me at the Peace Arch? how do i draw a border and stop talking when losing my voice? what do i know of crazy? running out of gas at mile 267 in Woodburn, Oregon.

however, a half hour later, BCAA to the rescue eh, and back on the road Kerouac-like roaming the country in search of something greater, (sure hope the road don’t come to own her.) she plays football in the AT&T store with her femme. it only takes six days to get phone service in America. on every corner, flu shots immediately available.

flag floggers. sh. go away. girl bloggers. sh. go away.
all gave some. some gave all.

through Ruby Valley & Jackpot, Nevada, down a dirt road of memory. into a town. smells like pee. picks up coffee in a cafe, cucumber cool.

under neapolitan clouds. raindrops pointillistic and silver streams exercise their freedom to choose on their windshield.

on this day, Daphne Odjig at ninety-seven, dies. Picasso admired her painting at Expo 67. and Kim Kardashian is tied up and robbed at gunpoint by cops.

in Apache Junction, the local yokel cut off a rattler’s head and tail. an hour later, we see it gyrating in the back of their pickup, its nerves firing. o’erhead, a rhetorical owl. (who, who)

i eat a little crow. roll in the hole. in the new bed. next morning, a curved bill thrasher ribbits in the butterfly air. cat stretch, chittering-esque. fixed on bird

“there was a band playing in her head and she felt like getting high.” rattlers. fill her dreams.

a coyote trots down her new street Rosa Parks, in light fantastic. mammoth RV’s slash a path through their homeland and lumber steadily into this, the village we call “Pueblo’.

“stop talking. you are losing your voice, chatty cat.”img_0788

the furies have worked hard to bring about one wild ride down.
held up by US customs officers at Peace Arch Crossing.

“what’s the nature of your relationship?” was the first question. too stunned to speak. avocado on my pants. kath replied “we’re friends.”

flagged by ties and equities. flogged by men in uniform. “we don’t normally detain you for more than a year. (it’s been 4.)

“when did we send you back?”

“back sir?”

“when did we send you back to Canada?”

“you haven’t sir.”

three hours later, pulling into Blaine. finally down the highway of purplehearts. seventy thousand in Washington. a reminder of those who have paid the great price for our freedom to travel. my cousin David, one of them. a kid. in Vietnam, one of the millions of destitute veterans that scour the US. his head in the sky.

starbirds on lamplights. bits of tires rib the roadside.

like snowbirds on snowboards, we fly down the mountain to Beatty. it is easy to be alive today.

stopped by cops.

my girl’s big open smile, her placating “yes sir, no sir.” he lets us go.

in the suicide seat, i peruse Talon’s catalogue. in the 1950’s, the Canadian government relocates reserve Indians to urban centres. tired eyes. tired years. o, where are the trees? unstoried. unspoken. poplars temper a silence.

in claustrophobic air, warming temperatures displace entire ecosystems. i feel like i am swimming under water. sometimes. either that, or hot-flashing.

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