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St. Peter Overlooking the Freeway These freeway breezes approach like voices to someone sitting on a roof, waiting for a vision and something to eat. It’s the top of the day and the sun appears bigger than America. Violating the sky with all the power ever known to this bum, a helicopter moves across traffic like a thumb over a rosary. A Cadillac hearse passes. Lord have mercy on those squinting through diamond slits in their windshields. May they imagine asphalt against their knees. Electromagnetic demons frenzy the air, smuggling corporate stock, technological therapy, and golf plans from one cell phone to the next. Nobody seems distracted by this parade except a dust beaten pick-up broken down, quiet as an immigrant. Smog rises to the pride of billboards towering like institutions, dictating faith in plush leather seats, hope in a can painted red, white and blue, love in perfumes for evening sacrifices of Baal, and dictating choice. Christ have mercy when they whip you with power lines and antennas. They mistake you for a reindeer. There seems to be no truth to this philosophy of gridlock. An eternity is spent polishing their despair.

What do they hunt, honking in their pen among road-kill and bumper sticker proselytes? Or who


are these beasts fleeing from, eventually slipping past speed limit signs which stand roadside in the tradition of make-shift priests offering the Eucharist from a can of Spam and a bottle of cheap wine. Lord have mercy on these sick cylinder souls, filthy with your blood on their dash. -Michael Brajkovich


St. Peter Overlooking the Freeway