I Am an American in my Car flying over Turtle Island

I am an American in my car flying over Turtle Island

The wind slaps my face

I go chanting my American mantra:

Hope the tires hold

Hope the tires hold

Hope the tires hold

 

There is no heart of America

The center shifts or my grasp of the center slips

Or America is all heart in the

Old-fashioned holistic sense

Any part is the heart of the

Old-fashioned America in the

Old-fashioned Waldensian sense of

Being scientifically and beatifically here now

 

Which is the time to read between the lines of road

I chant my mantra:

I hope I have enough gas

I hope I have enough gas

I hope I have enough gas

Thy road an endless snake

3am over the Alleghenies

Familiar sounds take on musical qualities

Was the sound always there or am I hearing a new vibration

End transmission