I've been having this dream.
that's all I ever know.
The dream will never say why exactly,
and I don't have enough presence to ask,
as it often goes, in dreams.
All I know is that next,
I will appear in a parking lot,
sometimes, the dream will just start here,
and I'll have gotten the gist already.
It's a different car every time.
One time, a convertible,
one time, my dad's old Ford Explorer.
I'm going across the US,
for a reason, but not one that I can remember.
All I can do,
is ride the yellow line,
my arm, getting thinner and thinner,
out the window, whipping like a rag.
In this dream,
I smoke cigarettes, which I don't do in real life,
and listen to classic rock, which I say I do, but really don't.
And I lose my sunglasses, even when they're on my face.
This sounds like a stress dream.
It's probably a stress dream.
Somewhere in monument valley
I start looking like an hourglass,
and I run out of holes in my belt.
Then, in Acadia,
I find a harmonica, inside a hat, tossed into a valley,
on which I learn no songs.
These things, I remember most.
My flashbulb memories,
for no reason at all, except that's what they are,
and you can't choose those kinds of things.
everywhere starts to look a lot more like Kansas.
I've never been there before but I try and imagine:
Ten thousand acres of rolling grass, and Topeka, like a fog of metal.
I never get any closer to the border,
than 500 miles,
and the US, it keeps outstretching its arms,
forever and ever, like a sheet.
I drive two hours north from New Orleans,
I think they were having mardi gras, but I can't even remember.
I'm leaving to Canada, to Ohio, to Minnesota, but really to fuckall,
my speedometer, reading in hieroglyphs.
I used to dream about flying over the ocean in nothing but my shirt,
now I dream about driving through fucking Kentucky.
Eventually, I have to slow down:
My car suddenly has manual transmission
and I don't know how to drive it, in a dream or in real life.
I think about the West Coast, for a minute
About the succulents in Monterey,
and all the things I did, that I know I did,
That I remember, but can't ever recall.
I'm on the crest of a hill.
It's dawn, or dusk, I can't tell,
I suppose it is a question of your location, really,
and there's an eel in the sky,
like the jet-stream turned silver.
Maybe an Aurora, and I'm back in Norway,
maybe just Sunrise Highway, in December.
And then I die,
(Or something like it, I've never done it before),
In a parking lot by a diner,
In some bullshit town in Wisconsin.
and my car, filling with water,
and the whole map, turning to pulp
and the windows rolling up, up, up.
All rights reserved.
Lately, I've been thinking about the size of my country.