No Map Needed



The architecture of my mind

catapults the past

into suspended animation,

hovering over barren lakes

like a hot-air balloon,

all jets firing, casting

the crest of creation.


Still thriving

at the Omega point --

the end prophesied

in the beginning --

no one notices

the clumsiness

of dancing on air.


Fabric-encased

cubicles craft

the perfect black hole

of loneliness.

No light enters,

exits. Outside,

butterfly bushes

bloom in a lavender

cul de sac.

Keep right, keep right

to circle back.


Each uneven line

of the poem:

an epitaph for the living.

Mother Nature

throws out the bathwater,

plants the baby

on the throne. Long live

the king/queen/knave

of our golden

fiefdom.

Serfs

follow seagull

tracks in the sand,

reach for an elixir

to cure

the queasiness

of sauteed crabs.


Guitars wail

the haunting

riffs of

“All Along

the Watchtower”

as we sail

’round the Cape

of Good Hope

into our African

roots. No map

needed, our clan

ensconced

in the savanna.


Faces on the waves.

Dreams long forgotten.

The past dog-paddles

into the future.

Hot-air balloon

flattens as it lands.

Jets fire into grass, finito.

Who will sail again?

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