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.