Black canvas, blue roads, all night
Drive like a dream from a magic lamp
Or in the belly of a firefly over the pond
The wingspan of the highway
Is the puzzle of the horizon
Every inch of which is an infinity
Every mile is nothing more than a mile
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naïve haircuts 
i can see you at work when kind of suddenly a poem flashes through you and you have to find pen and paper or screen to jot it down. I don’t know. I’m just saying that because it’s lunch time so maybe you’re writing this at work. Sorry, I’m being nosy. This poem literally brings back to life the few times I’ve enjoyed being in a car and also like the poem, at night. Being in a car always terrified me and yet i go on planes.
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I’m glad you could tell I wrote it all in one go. Though it wasn’t during lunch. Lately that is unusual for me. Usually I edit and edit. I’m the same with driving. I can’t stand it in the city or suburbs. Get me on a country road and some good tunes on, and it become a great experience. Thanks!
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yeh, editing can turn shit into fertilizer into flowers, bad metaphor, but it’s true i find and sometimes it screws it up though and the original word or paragraph was better or not better, but truer to what i’m trying to say. It’s hard, but we do it because we’re addicted to it. I think that’s why.
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I agree, we are addicted to it. Yes, I’ve edited something too far and turned it into mush, when the first draft is much better. Sometimes it’s hard to keep from tinkering with it though.
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some things i write are stuck in that time and so i don’t change them….don’t know what to do with them either. literary kindling and smoke shapes looking like letters.
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That’s a really cool idea, burning old poem to make new smoke shapes. That could be a poem/story.
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yeh, i guess it’d be like the old smoke signals which must have said something or had a prayer to go along with it. Burning a poem would be tough maybe like the Tibetans and their sand mandalas that they make over many days and then when it’s done they destroy it and do it all over. Sisyphus like.
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That’s an interesting idea, connecting burning poems to sand mandalas. That’s an idea that’ll kick around in my head for awhile.
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I forget where I first saw those mandala’s creation/destruction, but me too, it stayed stuck in my mind as a wonderful metaphor to nothing lasts forever.
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“The wingspan of the highway / Is the puzzle of the horizon”
Yep.
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Thanks Michael! Glad you liked it.
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the first four lines are an enchantment, Bob 🙂
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Thanks John!!! Glad you think so .
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it’s the last few I’m unsure about —
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Yea, those get a little more fuzzier, but I guess just my experience of driving on the open road.
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nice description, ‘fuzzier’ —
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Haha. Thanks John. Fuzzier may turn into a poem of its own for me.
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I would like to see what you make of it 🙂
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thanks Eden: that’s the sort of writing I try to emulate: ‘unexpected’ and original ‘ —
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I really like the poem, especially the last two lines!
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Thanks Diana!!
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Ooof. This is so beautiful! Sensational. When you took me over the pond in the firefly, my insides flip-flopped. Just wonderful.
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Thank you!!
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This poem makes me want to go for a drive…”in the belly of a firefly.” Brilliant work, Bob!
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Thanks. I’m not much of a fan of driving in the city, but an open country road, that’s a lot of fun.
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Same here. Country roads and open highway are the way to go.
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A magical poem… it provokes memories of driving at night with hoping to get home soon, but also feeling like in a limbo, a shifting and fluid space. You’ve well described that feeling 🌞
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Thanks Dave. I think those long drives start to play tricks on you. But sometimes in a really good way.
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