Self Portrait as Road Movie

Given my hero worship
and your enthusiasm
let’s hit the road and
we can reshape


American epistemology.
Of course we might ignore
active orders, turn and
escape, loose and free.


But first open the trunk,
dig down deep, reach
your arm into the thing,
discover what’s of use, sunk


to the bottom, and read.
There’s a new poem this
month, posthumous.
Take in the words. Breathe


if you can hear them. Could
be a map, if you squint.
Tilt it at an angle,
shut your mind up good


and tight, say it out loud,
scream it into the blistering
wind, think it. Think
it. It’s because we’re so sad


that we left. It’s because
this ocean’s too close. It’s
not comfortable. It’s anything
but. Listen, please


listen. Who cares if you’re
lonely, sick, depressed, a
poor excuse for citizenship.
When I look at you, for


a moment I see myself

transcribed the way
a mirror does it. All right. I’m
anything but. Or else


we share a history,
harmonious or ugly.
A nightmare, a dream,
a hoax.


So are you with me, are
you with me.