RECALLING A HIGH RIDE WITH X

I can touch the red glare from the back car lights
barreling through ecstasies in desperation.
Xavier had the wheel,
and I sat in the back perpendicular we blew through mist
that paused in our aching hiccupped lungs,
and felt good despite our desperation,
his mistress in the passenger seat placated
by devotion – willing to go along.

I glimpsed forward into the void night
thinking of X's vagabond existence,
searching with an infant looking glass
at his grown up problems.
He had fathered a child in the Bronx.
His lover had sought him out in the Poconos –
she stole his cell phone and began answering,
"Did you know he had a baby in New York
and hasn't paid child support once."

The sighs of the past come back in bellows,
converted mist echoing high in pitch.
The stomach wanders and is satiated
on craggy pavement tuned into freeing
choruses blaring tender trumpet voices
on the radio.
A beat, but it fizzles out in the end –
one extended sine wave of woebegone
and night fixes.
We rode in the night and the air vacuumed
our hurricane truck.

Everything can be found in the night
when its simply a blank existence,
and I rage at the people not up at this hour,
then complacent myself with inexistency
tuned into sound fragments of some sublime music
which must sound like the voice of archangels
humming harps of Helios –
and God must be fine to look at.

Just one moment in time,
forever changing;
I pause at its glow, yet the car keeps moving –
it’s one great heady trip.
X is a dynamo,
I'm a dynamo –
the red beams of existence
are slung on a wire.
Is there ecstasy in desperation – you bet.