He
drove
her home after dinner.
They dawdled for a moment on the porch until the wind
drove
them inside where, after drinks,
their mutual passion
drove
them to seek the comforts of the bedroom, and where
her exuberant energy
drove
him mad with desire, and where
he
drove
his knifeblade deep into
her heart
He was
driven
they said, seeking to excuse
his excess,
his access to those parts of
her body which even this exhorbitantly open society doesn’t allow.
Driven
he was
they said by television violence and devil music and commercial
radio and the
drive-throughs
he was forced to eat at as a child by
his working mother.
His vanished other parent
driven
he learned to drink by
his inabilty to access the excess promised to all by the features
he sat through at the
drive-in.
His mother and father coincidentally killed in
drive-bys
he read about two continents and two decades apart.
Driven
they said by these circumstances to commit
his act
her death
they killed
him by
driving
his last of a long line of needles deep into
his arm. And then, in an unmarked car,
they
drove
his body to
his last home, just as
he had
driven
her to the first and last home
they would ever share.
Jak's View of Vancouver v.3 