give me the world
and i will create a world within it
full of unreachable stars.
it is our irritated way.
in love i long to be alone;
alone i long for love.
in India i long for Indonesia.
on mountains: everywhere that is not mountains.
it doesn’t end.
it never ends.
i thumb down a passing truck believing
the driver will illuminate me,
believing, in my son-of-a-trucker’s way,
that the driver might somehow turn out a prophet.
i hop on another train hoping
never to arrive,
only to keep rolling,
up and down the madness,
across the ignorant divisions of territory,
around and around
until I forget i or this ever was.
Then, if i make it to the end of the line,
sell the boots off my feet
for another ticket across the Pacific.
Read in Nowhere Magazine.