Driving Directions

The interim between
pressing the power button
and the screen turning on
is where you thrive.

The possibilities
flowing like water
into an ocean
that eventually feeds
into a river.

You in the middle of the ocean,
thriving.

Unable to tell
if the human-shaped
column of air
projected from your z-axis
is holding you down
or you’re
holding it up.

Horror Vacui

You try to tell me
that the fuzzy vacuum
around the interstellar medium
is proof of
the universe’s dissatisfaction
with nothingness.
And not to negate our origins,
but maybe
cheer up, buttercup?
And I throw my drink
right in your face
and piss my pants
(in jest.)

Apogee

Periastron!
Not by chance or sleight of hand,
but the pieces seemed to fall in place
as the result of
less than accurate
meteorological predictions.
Can the wind feel good?
And by needing to ask,
you already know the answer.

Fretting not!
Older, yes,
and up to the same tricks.
You no longer walk on the inside of the sidewalk,
but still drive without looking enough behind.
Out of breath at higher elevations
and quick to acknowledge it.

“Do you feel afraid?”
“Not in a long time.”
And you pretended to choke me.

Reactions!
More often than not,
slow to react.
(You always notice when it does not happen at all.)

Pleasure derived from pointing out superfluous words;
you try to embrace something,
anything.
You rub your hands together,
not to utilize the warmth from the friction
but to see the dead skin pile up.

Bared Teeth

You will never drop the act.
Not for anyone.
Not ever.

You want to strike something
from a larger list of possibilities.
In general.
You want to discover
a list of possibilities.
In general.

You think it is often easy
to confuse the two opposite ends
of almost any spectrum.

In trying to avoid things
you are more actively involved in something.

Plan less.
React more.

No beads in your hair.
No rocks in your shoes.
Yet you are always too quick
to use the word,
“fine.”

You associate the “arrow of time”
with the continual decay of “context.”
Like literally.
The word in block letters
of limestone.
Eroded over eons
by moving water.