Life with my Head Out the Window

by Michael Head

I plunge into the forest with a quiver full of eyes, shooting them in fantastic directions, under the boughs and through the brush… many creatures inhabit this bastion of nature, but the nattering of the small woodpecker fills my ears like a machine gun, a hollow pounding of maple skin hurls me into a dream… yesterday, I knew this same place under a different sun that threw temperamental rays on my raw psyche—the realm of tectonics that defines my present like a mark or a sign, and like the Jeopardy of my soul I questioned the gods answers till I was scant of breath… who is at the wheel of Mother Earth? He or she is obviously drunk or high on something because I feel the magnetism of heartbeats around every corner—here, in the woods with my head out the window gulping the breeze like a dog, I recognize the rivers and the mountains of spirits contending for bliss… on the highway I feel the ether tangling my hair in its invisible tango—whoever is working the graveyard shift on the path from this side of the sun… to the other side of the sun doesn’t have to keep a lookout for cops, or worry about speed limits or maps for that matter—it’s all laid out there brother, so just keep on moving… I don’t know why we don’t get nauseous from going in circles all the time… cause we whirl life to life, like a frisbee… (perhaps it’s like taking mescaline—you vomit at first… and the rest of the trip is an overwhelming breeze…) … catch… breeze… catch… breeze… (could be a little like fly-fishing)