Sam hated Kansas
But what’s in a name?
Everything.
Everything about the name
Dad, Mom, the bunker, the band,
The fire,
Everything about them.
He hated how
No matter how quick a draw,
Despite the ease of his fingers
Behind a blade,
Behind a bullet,
Behind her neck,
He was never quick enough
To jam the radio buttons fast enough
To get those
Fucking
Voices
Out.
It was like 5 songs all at once
Preening and wailing and sighing
To the redness and the rage
And the blinding static dying
Behind his eyelids
And the dirty,
Broken
Skin
Itching at his knuckles.
But beside him,
Dean just sang along.
He preened and he wailed along,
He sighed at the silence.
He fixed the static on the dial.
Pushed in and punched out
Tape after tape,
Like sounds could soothe his beaten brow.
Sam hated Kansas.
Hated the roads they promised.
Hated the miles and fathers they forgave.
Hated the mothers they slew.
Hated the words he wouldn’t sing to.
As they punched in and pushed out
Every crevice of his deep, black heart.
Rattled every surface
Of this deep, black car.
He hated them.
Carry On,
“I’m not your son,”
There’ll be Peace,
“I’ve never known one,”
Lay your weary head
“I’m so tired, Dean.”