Cruising on I-74 to Firefly Farms

Cruising on I-74 to Firefly Farms

Mercury brusquely was in retrograde in my rearview mirror,
           while summer rains were just fucking with me.

I wondered if I was running out of Illinois soon.
I've always been a Chicagoan surrounded by this state,
           a Nick Bottom off of Belmont Avenue,
                      with pockets full of demands no one takes seriously.

As the vertigo of the American road trip gyred in my head,
           I realized this was a once and future glimpse of Liberty.

           I wanted to get back to that purple butterfly bush and sleep above
                      that Plath quote I took and twisted as my mumbled mantra:

"There is no stopping the blood jet of my poetry."
           And I got back to see that purple butterfly bush.

It's been years since I went back.
Mercury brusquely is in retrograde again.
I can't settle this or any of my Irish grudges.
But there is no stopping the blood jet of my poetry.