Road Trip

In the night the wind
Shines moonlit movement through
Heavy-headed ocean grasses
Which wanting to sleep are
Possessed to whip in unison
With each root mate making
Black shadows to scratch softly at the concrete wall

A man ages backwards in reverse,
Swiftly cycling the Freon air
With smoke through his lungs
Each exhalation: fear, the little death.
Soon again, the car, the interstate
And the cracked window, windshield
Dirtier with each mile marker

He launches burning paper
Airplane messages into the skies
Sparkling black with shadow, soot, and ash
He has a few more miles to go he thinks
Flicking his spent cigarette with a smooth
Fleshed and soft old hand into the waving
Grasses which are, after all, just weeds



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I believe that there is inside
Any kingdom, and also life…
You said as you placed the saucer
With its yellow and blue fish
On the low table
Anyway, in every place there is a feeling
Or a wind, that it is the kind
Of thing representing a range of In-
Betweens. Places falling on
The line either towards
An addiction to lathes,
Sewing machines, and puzzles, or possibilities
That efficiently float towards an inevitable,
Functional absolute at the other end.
Slipping into the orange plastic chair
And sipping tea from
Your kintsugi cup you
Mulled more about winds,
Their imperfections and
The multitude of lands
Which they inhabit.