I am the passenger and I ride and I ride
I ride through the city’s backsides
I see the stars come out of the sky
Yeah, the bright and hollow sky
You know it looks so good tonight

I am the passenger, I stay under glass
I look through my window so bright
I see the stars come out tonight
I see the bright and hollow sky
Over the city’s ripped backsides
And everything looks good tonight

Singing, la la la

Get into the car
We’ll be the passenger
We’ll ride through the city tonight
We’ll see the city’s ripped backsides

We’ll see the bright and hollow sky
We’ll see the stars that shine so bright
Stars made for us tonight

Oh, the passenger
How, how he rides
Oh, the passenger
He rides and he rides

He looks through his window
What does he see?
He sees the sign and hollow sky
He sees the stars come out tonight
He sees the city’s ripped backsides
He sees the winding ocean drive

And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
‘Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let’s take a ride and see what’s mine

Singing, la la la

Oh, the passenger
He rides and he rides
He sees things from under glass
He looks through his window side

He sees the things that he knows are his
He sees the bright and hollow sky
He sees the city sleep at night
He sees the stars are out tonight

And all of it is yours and mine
And all of it is yours and mine
So let’s ride and ride and ride and ride

Singing, la la la

This truck stop is Babylon
and I have become
one of its Whores.

Whether it is for
a quick buck
a full stomach
a taste of smack
or a tease of love

we are all here
with every thing
we own
with every one
we are

cramped into metal cages
surviving
on much less
than those who feed us
before moving on.

What is a Whore
but a ghost of a woman
moving door to door,
haunting who she has the capability to be?

The truck stop on I-95
is a ghost town
and I have taken up
residency.

Let me inhabit this planet as the Wind.

I want to marry the Snow and blanket the world with our blown kisses;

I want to recline lazily on hammocks made of marshmallow clouds and loll across green fields;

I want my screams to rip roofs off of buildings and make walls weightless;

I want to sculpt tornadoes in the cup of my hands, using the Bible Belt as my potter’s wheel so I may sweep out ignorance one town at a time;

I want to passionately undulate with the sea underneath sheets of erotic stars, impelling even the largest of creatures into the abyss so they may escape the recklessness of our love-making;

I want to carry birds on the tip of my finger like an eyelash waiting for a wish;

I want to schlep the sands of ancient civilizations across continents and with them pepper the windowsills of busy cities;

I want to be the breeze that tickles kites across the sky and introduces children to the sweet smell of lilac;

I want to be the exhalation that captures prayers of gratitude, ululations of despair, and whispers of a dying breath, lifting them to the heavens and laying them at the feet of vacant gods;

I want to orchestrate music with the rain while the trees pirouette, keeping their limbs agile in the hips;

I want to be the coolness that soothes the sweat on your burning neck;

I want to toss waves into cliffs like chairs being crushed in bar room brawls.

If I cannot become nonexistent and rest in the silence of nothingness,
Then at least grant me the experience of being boundless to either time or body
And carry on in the form of unbridled liberation,
So I may never know the prison of hope or memory again.

©Mayme Snow 2016