Road Tripping

Little white hands reach out from the darkness

I’m driving head long off the edge

Watch me go

A sketch of a brainwashed consciousness.

My tracks are the tracks of birds

Gliding just above the surface

Landing with content on the outstretched branch

Only to be shaken and thrown

Back into the wind.

My tracks are the tracks of steel and iron

Wrought upon the earth

Digging deep into its skin

Cast and abandoned

Rumbling deep with neurotic anxiety.

My tracks are the tracks of light

In the basement of a lonely house

The incandescent glow of a bulb

Hanging high from the ceiling,

Suspended in deep space.

I don’t see where this is supposed to end.

The trails just keep climbing on

Deep into the night

Passing people by in great blurs

Steadying the focus of my eyes

To see them feeding from great fires lit in the heart of the wilderness.

 These are the rulers of our aspirations.

All we want is nothing at all

Just give us a place that we can believe is a home

Something that we can rest our tired heads on

And hold with our shaking hands.

We’ll write your books with wide eyes and great care,

But our words mean nothing to you.