Saturday, October 15, 2011


by G. Jack Urso

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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