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.