secret motel

I think you people are insane. I just want to slip away from being human. I want to be that thing flying over the treetops at dusk. Or I want to be that persistent hum in the neon signs of casinos and churches. I want to be the clandestine silence and order of convenience store shelves. I want to be that gold sunrise my father and I quietly contemplated driving east in the early morning of a long time ago. Or the shush shush shush shush of lawn sprinklers in the evening. Here comes the sleep. Here come the flying saucers. Here come the radio voices out of a past that seems more human and alive than anything in this ever-constricting world of fear and hate and uncertainty. Reptiles rule the pharmacies and institutions--as if that's some great victory in an indifferent universe. Meanwhile, all my signals are disintegrating into a quiet noise. I'm slipping out of here, undetected, on a cool breeze. I will see you on another side of Sunday.