The Sailboat Past

A poem about time and longing.

So I drive and put aside the sailboat past

which only bends to the breeze

and never navigates to suit my beliefs.

Elevated by gasoline, burning in reaction

to the force I have implanted

with foot, bone, and drone of thought.

It happens with a quick release of blood and energy.

It’s unbelievable that I possess such an ability.

Why should it affiliate with me?

I barely even see the shadow people

lurking on the sides of the streets

eating their candy and delivering speeches.

“Just because,” I conclude

but that’s really no excuse.

Curiosity is customary when dealing with the imaginary.

So if you’ll excuse me, I will refrain from being brief.

Hallow testaments blazing the candid, absent “she,”

telling us both to slow our glucose stoves.

Like I could control.

If I could I wouldn’t.

I’m supposed to pose opposition

and compromise or challenge the convictions of my pale rider.

He breathes the subjects

I merely flow about the scenery

guessing the operations of his frustration

and feeling proud that I am in the known.

Tell me where it is you want to go.

The guillotine is fun, but I am hateless.

You’d better try another trick if you’re to discover my weakness.

Gold or love, which am I after?

A golden love is more adapted to my apt, clever ways of

draft-dodging heroism.

A man without a mission

capable of saying it’s easier to think within the bounds of that prison

but like any other cell it’s still miles from the door.

Camouflaged melodies battle past the passing lane

doppler their cadences back and forth then south again.

Each one an undoubtable doubter

very sad to see themselves this way.

I’d describe them as agents without celebrity

or priests who’ve lost divinity.

Traded it in for stock

catapulted out of thought.

Churned up embers are stabbed, caught

and given a second chance.

My vehicle hunkers down and growls about

scouting out the situation,

posting sentinels in various positions and glaring dubiously

at an eight-sided sign.

Another mile, a thousand grand schemes

and a billion lodged, cemented bits of

sand, gravel, and tar

cremated as a sacrifice to rubber wheels and suspension.

I bounce along without suspicion or a change in disposition.

Yes, it does amaze!

It’s 20 degrees outside and my hands are freezing.

My headache is getting worse.

and this cigarette is no help.

Every street light seems to know my name.

Up goes the radio to drown out their gaze.

I’m getting sick of hearing my own complaints.

Whatever I try it feels the same.

Mimicking the calloused phrases and letting them float

so my soul can ride passenger

the houses are growing larger and getting horrible and wonderful.

My attention can’t stabilize.

Molecules of frozen air dependent on my warm breathe

take forms and shapes and summarize

the fragile nature of my affairs.

Propelling possibilities or potential like electricity

charged and sentenced surely

but always welcoming and often worrying.

Orange sways with solemn care, enough to carry me

persuade me, delude me to melt my champion cargo’s conversation.

I’d like to know what it is he’s really after

or should I say, for clarity

what it is that really matters

and end this ghastly fornication in time to fit my calculations.

You see, home is in my windshield.

Yes, I am going home.

To sleep and dream alone

pretend naturally that something else is occurring.

Stir up old rusty mannequin shells

and place myself in a timeless hell.

With a powerful hope manifested by my midnight ride

passing ambulances impregnated with kidnapped lives

and the smeared paint of a rainy sky

all designed to challenge the suicidal.

It’s idleness I pray for.

The idleness of one ray of sunlight on my face

when I awake

It would be worth all this to know it’s blessed gaze

and to wash my smoky lips

in the beauty of a god,

the beauty of a crime.

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