Drive is a vicious thrill of a film. The visceral kick of that hour and a half in the theater becomes aftershocks of insight during the drive home, the next morning’s coffee, and even a walk with the dog a week later. Beneath its slick skin of 80s-video glam and mob-flick bravado beats a slow, contemplative pulse. The film slyly acknowledges, and complicates, star Ryan Gosling’s status as the thinking woman’s sex symbol by presenting his character, a stunt driver who loans his services to L.A.’s underworld as a getaway guru, as the newest member of the fraternity of Men With No Names—or, more accurately, men who want to be The Man With No Name.

green banana leaves with
sun shining behind them
white arrows circling, indian
headdress: white feathers

white figure, head first, falls
down in white hail: whiteness
betrays itself to find grace, to
dispel fellow’s anger — sun-

flower falls back with arrows
stuck in its center: feathers form
golden cross: four crescent moons
encircle darkness — fires up path

hands upraised about pumpkins
small fires, sunflower petals
surround her eye, precious
banality, kind desire, heart solace

dichotomy, duality, firmness
coal bin, winter wheat, rocks, rusted
car frames, one tree, windmill
circular water tank, yellow leaves

longhorn steers move past golden
circle — sunflower, lion’s face,
wings surpass dark center’s
fury — white wings above fighters’

planes: turns with hope, small
golden planes fly through perim-
eter’s petals — path widens
white leaves against dark sax-

ophones — arrows into sheaths
jewish man from texas, jewish
couple from england, italian
man from providence offer

solace, reason, laughter, shade
arrows released backwards
relief: one violet flower, thin,
fragile, offering shade from sun

sunflower, like klieg light, turns
upward — listening, a comfort
sturdiness indeed, mystery a
kindness — morning friends shade

bannedcov er

It all began with a fuck. What doesn’t? I fucked the wrong person; I fucked up the right one; somebody played me a song. It changed my whole life, that song. That’s why I later went to so much trouble to find the guy who wrote and sang it. His name was Jim Cassady, or at least that’s what he called himself. His real name was Eddie Brown, but he’d changed it in tribute to Jim Morrison and Neal Cassady. I’d never heard of either one before I discovered punk rock. I grew up in a small city in North Carolina where I’d never known a single soul who listened to the Doors or read Jack Kerouac. I was a jock—a varsity pitcher and All-District linebacker who dressed like a preppie and hung out at frat parties. Even in high school I was hanging out at frat parties. My girlfriend was a cheerleader. My parents were diehard Republicans. Life was good. I hated my life. Nothing ever happened in North Carolina in those days, the early eighties. I used to pray for something to happen, and I’d stopped believing in God at fourteen.