Spire after spire for two straight hours. Old towns behind the sound
barriers along the highway. How they tremble under the weight
of a comprehensive pain. And each spire I pass on the way
to my own kind of kingdom protects the dear, the burgundy,
the glassy-faithed who live there. A moment following suit
like a clanging dream: the androgynous heart
I thought would turn to stone. The treble and light of Age Thirteen
that seemed so much like a dirty cache. A Saturday afternoon
in a pink bedroom assigning names to the clouds
outside my window. Delighted Dunebug. Little Lucifer.
Shifty Suithead who looked patient and fluid in his sleek
and slumberous shrug. And today, on my drive home
along the dead-west road, the nimbus like tulip bulbs
waiting for the right month to be dug in a smallish hole.
The stubborn grunt of the woman who tries to break ground
in her garden plot. Her voice so low, and how
it rings me back to the cars changing lanes ahead of me,
the exit signs counting down to Kingdom City: 155
past the abandoned ferris wheel. The turn to the sad-
looking gas station with its fritzing neon lights. The sign
for the souvenir shop that advertises showers and food
for the drive-by truckers. And this, the trembling heart
of my Midwestern moment. Car after car passing me by,
beeping their horns until I speed up.
This print was inspired by many walks at the old site of the Marvine Collary, which interstate 81 zooms right through. There is no sound barrier wall there, but on the other side of the highway is the small, old, forgotten town of Throop. The words "Ich Habe Genug" in the title refer to this J.S. Bach Cantata, which was a driving force behind the print.