"The Road" by Gabriel Brunelle

How is it that I have returned to this road?
Time and again;
no matter the pain;
no matter the consequence; no matter the damage.

How could I
let this happen?
And wait -- wait a minute;
before I smash myself in the face; before I smash
a desk, a table, or a wall.

Because of the pain; because of the consequence; because of the damage.

That is why.
Like the snake eating its tail.
Like Escher's ants
marching the double twisted ribbon of double elliptic infinity.

I remember
being so hung over,
so dry,
in a firetrap apartment on a dusty second floor; smelling cat shit; smelling mold; smelling piss.

And I remember a blasé telephone, and my father's voice,
from the road,
telling me

it was a bad one to be on.