they run, red eyes into the night
trailing a path into infinite space
crimson and green, yellow and white
pilgrims seeking artificial light
the engine runs hot, the tank is low
can’t get a station on the radio
i can take the next exit and pay the toll
or stay on the road and see how it goes
my tires spin and quickly rotate
bearing a life of burden and weight
44 miles of concrete and steel
i am north on the interstate
my motor is made with hands of flesh
i get gassed and hope for the best
radio static crackles like a siren’s cry
i slip into gear and hurry to die
red eyes drive alone into heaven
i am north on I-87
A spoken word multimedia interpretation of my poem Interstate-87.
There is no destination. There is only the ride.
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