perhappened mag
issue 2: ROAD TRIP
i take a cross-country
road trip by proxy
M.P. ARMSTRONG
when the chafe of summer heat starts to leave
oozing blisters on every familiar street corner,
i pack the trunk, tetris-like, for a cross-country road trip. red,
white, and blue reflections in the rearview, i’m
kerouac and steinbeck’s protagonist; i’m dancing
in the margins of rascal flatts and springsteen songs.
i dart from hotel lobby to hotel lobby, room keys as band-aids over
hometown wounds and every truck-stop pie from here
to california as balm. some nights, i will hear the corn
shout the answers to my doubts, and some nights
it’s the unfamiliar forest and all i hear are wolves. but every night
the sky falls open before me like a glittering script, wipes away
blood and bruise with carefully rehearsed mystery.
of course, i never actually leave my house. no one
does. the fluorescent liminality of rest stops and the mcdonalds-
exxon junctions that pass for towns--the wings, if all the world
really is a stage--have been replaced by a new kind
of haunted americana. only the lines of yellow and
white paint remain, streaked across black tar with the
lonely glint of headlights or tire rims. the emptiness scoops
the untapped possibility from exit signs, strips the
passing towns down to stoic brick. there is an
audience, but only of eyes and breath, monstrous
in the shadows and teeth pulling at our communal flesh.
life is liminal now, waiting for an endless cue.
life is limited now, no answer for adventure.
oozing blisters on every familiar street corner,
i pack the trunk, tetris-like, for a cross-country road trip. red,
white, and blue reflections in the rearview, i’m
kerouac and steinbeck’s protagonist; i’m dancing
in the margins of rascal flatts and springsteen songs.
i dart from hotel lobby to hotel lobby, room keys as band-aids over
hometown wounds and every truck-stop pie from here
to california as balm. some nights, i will hear the corn
shout the answers to my doubts, and some nights
it’s the unfamiliar forest and all i hear are wolves. but every night
the sky falls open before me like a glittering script, wipes away
blood and bruise with carefully rehearsed mystery.
of course, i never actually leave my house. no one
does. the fluorescent liminality of rest stops and the mcdonalds-
exxon junctions that pass for towns--the wings, if all the world
really is a stage--have been replaced by a new kind
of haunted americana. only the lines of yellow and
white paint remain, streaked across black tar with the
lonely glint of headlights or tire rims. the emptiness scoops
the untapped possibility from exit signs, strips the
passing towns down to stoic brick. there is an
audience, but only of eyes and breath, monstrous
in the shadows and teeth pulling at our communal flesh.
life is liminal now, waiting for an endless cue.
life is limited now, no answer for adventure.
M.P. Armstrong is a disabled queer writer from Ohio, studying English and history at Kent State University. Their work appears or is forthcoming in Silver Birch Press, Prismatica Magazine, and Red Earth Review, among others. They also serve as managing editor and reporter for Curtain Call and Fusion magazines. In their spare time, they enjoy rock concerts, board games, and brightly colored blazers. Find them online @mpawrites and at mpawrites.wixsite.com/website.