my car gently ascends through the woods
to take me home,
where drunken deer and self-important raccoons
vie to share the road with me.
My car senses the energy
of that human-savvy wildlife.
an opportunity to reciprocate
their watchfulness and inevitability.
Once I reach the top of the hill,
I put the car in neutral and begin
my silent descent,
knowing what will ensue.
I call it, simply, The Morph.
As soon as I 'cross over',
I am witness to a Divine Intervention
of one radio station co-mingling,
I coast as slowly as physically possible,
careful to not lose
one ounce of irony,
one taste of stylistic confusion,
one moment of sonic interfusion.
I throw all allegiance to rationality out the window when I:
swoon to a Brahms clarinet sonata
being overtaken by molten prog rock,
sway when blues queen Ma Rainy
melts into ever-current Robert Glasper’s hip-hop,
smile when a show on nanotechnology
transposes into bible-thumping Sunday morning preaching, and
squeal with delight when our President is gradually drowned out
by a nature special featuring frogs, bugs, and coyotes.
Surely, we do not need to be sound-savvy superhumans
to relish in