Jeremiah Walton – Road Trips Seen Thru Motel Rooms

Road Trips Seen Thru Motel Rooms

R

R

Why are you scared all the time?

she ask

Stroking my yellow knuckles,

smiling with eyes

wet,

red,

electric

blue,

spider web wrapped.

We we’re young.

Not scared.

Just too willing

to store our cigarettes

books and change

all in the same

shopping bag.

“We’re making money

solely

to get drunk

in motel rooms

& buy $1 coffee. Our

grocery stores are

7/11 & Exxon”

“We’re making money to go no where,”

she said.

“That’s where I don’t want to go,” I said.

Our bodies roll

in tangles

of sheets

stained by 1000s of

piss drunk fucks

where neither participating

left satisfied.

“We’re not doing anything with our lives” I say thick mouthed

“Where did this drunken optimism come from?”

She slurps laughter, coughs, laughs, coughs smiling

She’s always smiling

I laugh,

smell of booze

calms red nostrils

flaring

like irritated

innie belly buttons.

Pupils shutter

like skin of a snare drum,

skittering like peddles

in an earthquake.

She was a seismograph

that could register me

1000s of miles away.

Empty orange bottles

snagged from her parents’

medicine cabinet

are catching Zs

before further ingestion

in

our jackets and shopping bags and clothes 

piled

room’s corner.

We lay naked in more than one way

Outside sleeps like dogs

muggy warm dreams

bout Las Vegas

desert road trips

& California

road side oasises,

hidden beaches

& margaritas.

We all want to get outta here.

The motel windows are oily,

smudged with age, lit by

neon lights,

the glare of people waking,

driving cars full of Lack Of.

We’re all lacking something someone has,

and

I don’t want it all.

The road cracked

sand tumbling

Earth shaking

like corner lip

of an angry bullet

her smile tastes metal

Their business calling

waiting to ring

with every cellphone charge,

every empty payphone

on the street.

Wives,

children,

mortgages,

unpaid bills & landlords,

old washing machines

sputtering, church meetings,

therapy, jobs

and the absence of jobs,

low monthly incomes. There’s

a lot on our chests

and even more

beating

inside of them.

I’ll drink more

to feel healthy again.

Healthy in the way

only a doctor prescribes.

“I want you to enjoy life. Smile and mean it.

Because you haven’t in so long.” she said rolling

into my side,

her head

resting

like wisdom.

My gut

rises and falls

as ocean swells.

I love her. I love our

freedom.

“Your feet are freezing” I say

Looking at red spider

webs

dripping sludge

from electric blue

punctured deep

with black hole

goodness.

“Smile!”

She laughs again,

smiles,

laughs,

slurs,

laughs.

I love her.  

R

R

Jeremiah Walton is 18 and backpacking the East Coast. He manages Nostrovia! Poetry, WISH Publishing, The Traveling Poet, and is an editor at Underground Books. He blogs at Gatsby’s Abandoned Children.

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One thought on “Jeremiah Walton – Road Trips Seen Thru Motel Rooms

  1. Reblogged this on Gatsby's Abandoned Children and commented:

    Road Trips Seen Thru Motel Rooms

    Why are you scared all the time?

    she ask

    Stroking my yellow knuckles,

    smiling with eyes

    wet,

    red,

    electric

    blue,

    spider web wrapped.

    We we’re young.

    Not scared.

    Just too willing

    to store our cigarettes

    books and change

    all in the same

    shopping bag.

    “We’re making money

    solely

    to get drunk

    in motel rooms

    & buy $1 coffee. Our

    grocery stores are

    7/11 & Exxon”

    “We’re making money to go no where,”

    she said.

    “That’s where I don’t want to go,” I said.

    Our bodies roll

    in tangles

    of sheets

    stained by 1000s of

    piss drunk fucks

    where neither participating

    left satisfied.

    “We’re not doing anything with our lives” I say thick mouthed

    “Where did this drunken optimism come from?”

    She slurps laughter, coughs, laughs, coughs smiling

    She’s always smiling

    I laugh,

    smell of booze

    calms red nostrils

    flaring

    like irritated

    innie belly buttons.

    Pupils shutter

    like skin of a snare drum,

    skittering like peddles

    in an earthquake.

    She was a seismograph

    that could register me

    1000s of miles away.

    Empty orange bottles

    snagged from her parents’

    medicine cabinet

    are catching Zs

    before further ingestion

    in

    our jackets and shopping bags and clothes

    piled

    room’s corner.

    We lay naked in more than one way

    Outside sleeps like dogs

    muggy warm dreams

    bout Las Vegas

    desert road trips

    & California

    road side oasises,

    hidden beaches

    & margaritas.

    We all want to get outta here.

    The motel windows are oily,

    smudged with age, lit by

    neon lights,

    the glare of people waking,

    driving cars full of Lack Of.

    We’re all lacking something someone has,

    and

    I don’t want it all.

    The road cracked

    sand tumbling

    Earth shaking

    like corner lip

    of an angry bullet

    her smile tastes metal

    Their business calling

    waiting to ring

    with every cellphone charge,

    every empty payphone

    on the street.

    Wives,

    children,

    mortgages,

    unpaid bills & landlords,

    old washing machines

    sputtering, church meetings,

    therapy, jobs

    and the absence of jobs,

    low monthly incomes. There’s

    a lot on our chests

    and even more

    beating

    inside of them.

    I’ll drink more

    to feel healthy again.

    Healthy in the way

    only a doctor prescribes.

    “I want you to enjoy life. Smile and mean it.

    Because you haven’t in so long.” she said rolling

    into my side,

    her head

    resting

    like wisdom.

    My gut

    rises and falls

    as ocean swells.

    I love her. I love our

    freedom.

    “Your feet are freezing” I say

    Looking at red spider

    webs

    dripping sludge

    from electric blue

    punctured deep

    with black hole

    goodness.

    “Smile!”

    She laughs again,

    smiles,

    laughs,

    slurs,

    laughs.

    I love her.

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