I saw a photograph of lightning striking the Statue of Liberty. One long bolt from the sky forked into two like the Frost poem. Some scholars say the real meaning of Road is not what people think. I grew up in a world that believed lightning could not strike the same place twice. But cameras proved it wrong. It's so quick, lightning, one thrust—to the ground—to golfers with clubs in the air—to the great Statue herself, is actually many hits. We just can't see them. Maybe the Greeks knew but the scrolls at Alexandria were burned. If you've ever loved someone who sliced up your heart behind your back, and didn't learn of it till later, that her mouth had been struck by a friend's lips, or if a man promises to raise you up into the light, but really means to cage you, who speaks with that famous forked tongue, you'll know it too late. It will end behind your back. And right in front of you. It's that quick.

I grew old and died. But before that I stole a car. A green '57 Chevy. It was summer and mangoes dangled from the Miramar trees. Copperheads basked along the canal where I fished for brim with a cane pole. Keys left in the ignition, one of us kicked the window out. A whooping gang all rode away. Three of them huffed glue from paper bags. Night picnic for thieves. We drove quick shadows into a weathered billboard for Lucky Strikes snapping the front axle. The Chevy ticked and smoked like a creature heaving its last breath under bright wisps of the Milky Way. We gave the night burning tires, a savage perfume, and ran when a car came down. I ran into a barbed wire fence, dangled there bleeding from a gash. It didn't hurt a bit with fear. The four of us walked into town one-in-the-morning laughing until two cops with coffee at the corner store looked like they might start with the questions. That kid Moon-Face Joe sat in the back of the patrol car. His window down he said Evening, Gentlemen, but we just kept walking, heads down and three of us high. I wasn't stoned but there was blood. I was 12.

The clocks are striking thirteen and Liz Cheney says we're sleepwalking toward dictatorship. So I fill up the water balloons while everyone sings Freebird with their hair on fire. The elephant has figured out that the string that ties it to the stake is just a suggestion. Snap. The sudden mood erupts. Bats exit the bell tower by the thousands. The freedom to write has been erased from the ten commandments. Look, the salesman is selling Instant Angels near the Ferris wheel. Batteries not included, just add water. It's possible an engine could suddenly appear in your parlor. It's possible an equation was overlooked by the robot that discovered fire. It's possible the Tin Man is listening to your conversations. What's that word from the end of East of Eden. Yeah, that one. Something nice must be done, but where does one find the emergency ritual before the comet loops the moon. I know—Place a bucket over the head of someone you love and bang real hard. Listen, this is the television confiscation brigade speaking, come out with your pants up. Wait. I've just received a post card from the Three Stooges. It says: Niagara Falls, slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch.