Haunted Highway

Don't ask me for my destination,
I took my directions from the back of a van
headng east on the Banfield. The sticker said:
Don't look behind you. Now I'm riding
this haunted highway I call home.

The rivers are jade, undrinkable water
bird-shadows hover awaiting the slaughter
of metal on metal when mindless machinery
falls upon men. Scorching the greenery,
hot smoke is rising along the road's shoulder
last vegetation reduced to a smoulder.

Don't read me any signs for off ramps,
there's no exit from Hell, according
to old Sartre. But there are no other people--
just me and the endless white stripes of
this haunted highway I call home.

The billboards are swirling with angry designs
struck out by the shadows of high-tension lines
strung pylon to pylon. Lane markers flash
like lights on an ambulance parked by a crash
in sleepless visions. Dragging my load
I'm riding and gliding down Exile Road.

Don't wait for me at the crossroads. My soul
is not for sale or trade-- I won't choose
the left or right-hand path, or even
Elfland Road. I keep moving on
this haunted highway I call home.

I've no time to stop and no place to go
the hellhound beside me is moving too slow.
I won't wait, you hell-dog, get back to your place
go find you a slow car, one you can chase--
I'll outdrive damnation, forever I'll roam
I'll find Heaven's highway and call it my home.