and we might get lost someplace

driving through the long night
trying to figure whos right and whos wrong
now the kid has gone.
i sit belted up tight,
she sucks on a match light, glowing bronze, steering on.
snd i might be more of a man if i stopped this in its tracks
and said, come on, lets go home. but she's got the wheel,
and i've got nothing except what i have on.

when youre driving with the brakes on
when you're swimming with your boots on,
it's hard to say you love someone
and it's hard to say you dont

trying to keep the mood right, trying to steer the conversation from
the thing we've done.
she shuts up the ashtray, and i say its a long way back now hon
she just yawns.

and we might get lost someplace
so desolate that no one where were from would ever come
but shes got the wheel and i've got to deal from now on.

but unless the moon falls tonight, unless continents collide,
nothings gonna make me, break from her side

***

my first car was my solace. my confessional. my escape. it was always full of music, clothing, bags of things; stickers on the outside and inside. sometimes an ice chest. most often my best friend, at the time, in the passenger seat. the navigator. she always -- *always* -- knew how to get everywhere. often, too, there were various people cluttering the back seat. voices chiming back and forth. laughter. singing. arguing. and those deep conversations that sometimes the open road invokes in you.

truth be known i hated going home. if i could have lived in my car then, i would have. in some ways, i did. days when i would wake up at dawn and pack the car. drive anywhere, nowhere in particular, and everywhere. one of my favourite "drives" was up and down pacific coast highway. up and down the coast. being near the water was incredible. rolling down the window, smelling the salty air, the beach breeze, and letting go of everything pent up inside of me. the music blaring as high as it could go.

some days i drove alone. sat in the parking lot of newport beach; rolled the windows down and reclined the seat back. slept. dreamed. got out and sat on the hood. wrote in my journal. cried. screamed. laughed. then got back in. drove through laguna canyon. or hopped the freeway to los angeles, sometimes screaming the words to songs, sometimes whispering. writing poetry on napkins while waiting for the light to change. filling my ashtray with clove cigarettes, and marlboro lights. snapping photographs of random sights. people. places. signs. not going back until the latest possible moment. then still lingering in the driveway for one last song.

sometimes i truly miss the car escapes. the car i have now is not really mine. and even if it was, it feels more like a vehicle to get to and back from places. a machine of necessity. i miss the allure of my old honda civic. the personality it had. the way it was touched by everyone who rode in it. how it was touched by me.

i think i need a road trip. anyone want to join me?