(On the Road) Suticases, Suitcases

so this is what has been
eating at me, the genie-emptied
bottle, the lamp not casting light
on any path that two feet or
four wheels can follow.
I want to give you the map
to all the treasure, the
pirate ship beached on coral,
an open option and all the
action of choosing, packed
into the trunk; my favorite gods,
my tired metaphors, spatial destinies,
unmeasured, and untied shoes.
You are to me, so full
of every-color, every
single breath I hold in, coming closer.
I know I keep compressing
your life into my words, but
they just gather into me like
slow burnings, teeth clenching,
with fists and fusion, the morning
glory that closes each night, and
smooths out the creases of the day,
the torus of emotion moving up
and out, like orbit and oceans.
All I want is the whole middle
of the night, sitting cross-legged up
on my bed, eating lo-mein with chopsticks
out of boxes, suitcases in the corner,
knowing any other lifetime
we can get on the road, chasing
Carlo Marx and Sal
Paradise ahead of us.