Erasing words from Pico Iyer's Why We Travel We travel Initially To Lose To Find Ourselves Bring what little we can Find young fools Again Slow time Fall in love Once more Open solitudes Aimlessness Moral holiday Of pure hazard Taste Be compelled Work desperately For a moment
Two single beds two feet apart Two children bounding around Bunctious before bed Two tired married adults Wife and husband One thousand miles apart Words shouting Emotional bunkers Landing verbose artillery In those places where it peels The dried blood right back off In between Get your clothes off Don’
Littered alarm Bleeps across this paved sea Her library’s lot This monotonous jingle Void of humor or soul Pure purposeless audible Of siren’s caution Upon the wait While firetrucks lumber And firemen assess Any books a’burnin’ The winter Sunday unfolds Graying Freezing Evacuees harbor heat One football
I. To all of our achings we’re a humble servant, Stuck in a house with no means to flee. Just a repertoire of notions a feeding, desires a needing, plots a seeding, fixations afixiating. We develop a kinship to the suffering, Help the record needle keep a skipping, so
She crowns you, so shall she crucify. She waters your soil, so shall she prune your branches. Like sheaves of corn she’ll gather, She’ll peal your husks and leave you naked. Passion cares for passion and asks for nothing beyond itself. She is the possessor and is not
In the sloping yard of the seminary, there’s a barren tree Despite the winter white it’s radiating, apparently As there’s no snow in a radius, underneath And as I pass in a vehicle I think: In this sloping yard of spirituality, this is the after life No
Over the thrill hill the station wagon glides, you enjoyed getting a rise out of your kids on a rural stretch. Hands off the wheel, knee doing the steering. Stop it dad. What’s in motion isn’t just you putting our bodies somewhere between 40 and 50, strapped into
She’s been in two dreams, hopefully zero more. In the first, we arrived by coach bus into a city and headed away from our tour to the rooftops; we were stoned on a secret that our partners didn’t know yet we were good, kept a boundary, yet it
Poetry
I. Where we’re going, interstellar, I’m not sure we still need country. Pack the things we need or might need Each other, intercontinental. Except the meek of mind, intolerant, I’m not sure we still need them. Pack the fuel to push us forward, All of us, interstellar
Poetry
Artificially algorithmically Alliterated allegory Altered and edited By monotonous machines Monstrosity morphed Meld of man Rhythm rhyme Weaving waxing Wireless woman Writing words Weld and woven Vivid voice vexed Via vane Expressions of repression Machine maturation Reading robot Learning lessons Symphonic sessions Mimic memories of Harmonic humans Spell checked Auto
I. four men in their thirties ten years removed from their shared years of college playing in a pool making up a hybrid game half baseball, half waterpolo drinking bottled beers, shirtless this battered motel in the Wyoming dusk this splashing and laughing indicative of summer, old friends these children
The rolling hum of the airplane's engine, doppler effect and all, and the drizzle of some indoor plumbing, perhaps a regurgitation within these pipes interrupted by a few clinks in the radiator. A cat is motionless, spent while these fingers click on plastic keys and now a helicopter