DRUNK DIRECTING TRAFFIC AT THE INTERSECTION OF TIME AND SPACE

No sooner had I lowered myself

down into that dark well

of ghost echos and distant whale squeak

than I was the poor boy of every

sad blues and honky-tonk song,

thumb out, on the Lost Highway

and a long, long way from home,

a lonesome stranger trying to

hitch a ride to ever-stranger lands

(and other Parts Unknown, as well).

I was Hank and Lefty,

Kerouac and Cassidy,

Quixote and Sancho.

I wore the fabled hubcap

diamond-star halo and red shoes

that were the envy of every angel

(and devil alike).

I made mid-night raids

on The Garden of Earthly Delights.

I stole Death’s pale, raggedy horse

and sold it to a traveling gypsy circus.

I directed traffic at the intersection

of Time and Space.

I rode bitch between a mega-church minister

and a street-corner preacher.

I got drunk on nine kinds of hellfire

and nearly died in a duel

over a one-legged ballerina.

If not for the alarm clock

pinching my ear with its

sharp, bony fingers,

I might not have ever

made it back.

-Jason Ryberg, 2010