Ken Cormier is a teacher, performance poet, independent radio producer, and musician. He is the author of two collections of stories and poems: Balance Act (Insomniac Press 2000) and The Tragedy in My Neighborhood (Dead Academics Press 2010). He has released three CDs of original music: God Damn Doghouse (2000) and Radio-Bueno (2002) with Elis Eil Records, and Nowhere Is Nowhere (2009) with Cosmodemonic Telegraph Records. Ken’s live performances have been described as “a William Burroughs exorcism through a Karaoke machine.” Ken co-founded and edited The Lumberyard, a radio magazine of poetry, prose and music, which aired weekly on WHUS in Connecticut from 2005-2008. Ken is an Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Quinnipiac University.
“Roads” is the second of six short-shorts from Ken Cormier that will run every other week for 12 weeks.
The wiper blades are loud, and they’re doing almost nothing to help me see the road. It’s been raining for maybe an hour now. I’m somewhere in Pennsylvania, and it’s pitch dark. The highway is empty. Every now and then I’ll pass a green sign on the right side of the road, but I can never make out what it says. The passenger seat is covered with papers. The papers are covered in scribbles and doodles, or maybe it’s words. Maybe they’re covered in sentences and paragraphs, but I can’t look long enough to figure it out because every time I turn my head, the whole car sways in the same direction. The dotted lines on the road are more aggressive and unpredictable than I’d like them to be. When I turn on the radio I inadvertently slam on the brakes. My chest hits the steering wheel. Suddenly, Willie Nelson sings to me loudly. It’s “On the Road Again.” I laugh and say, “Of course.” It feels good to smile. I adjust the volume and take my foot off the break. I try to keep my speed down, but inevitably I lose track and find myself moving dangerously fast. After a couple of hours the rain turns to snow, and the expressway becomes a quiet, winding secondary road. The music gives way to static. I pass several houses, shadows in my peripheral vision. Eventually there is a barn and a dirt road. Then there is a wide, expansive field. The blades of grass look like crystal shards in my headlights. Then they look thicker, like the stems of wine glasses, and I can feel them pop and crack under my tires. I reach the edge of the woods and search around for a way in. I find a dirt path just wide enough for my car, and I push into the darkness. It feels warmer, I think. I can’t see a thing. I keep pressing the accelerator. My tires spin and whine. On the radio, a female voice emerges from the static. Then the bottom drops out. My legs are wet. And I can finally lie back. Look at the trees. Go to sleep.
