&oplus latest
&rarr mantra
&oplus poetry
- 642019
- accordion heart
- adieu?
- birds and rain
- clouds like lead tires
- draining midnight
- drunk on her smile, I
- exhale
- growing up too fast
- helvetica
- I slept on the floor last night
- mantra
- my mother
- optimism
- sleeping for a month and a half
- think lucid
- travel lines
- unfinished
- the veteran
- what happens today
about the author
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travel lines
my father watched
the travel channel
for the texas hold ‘em;
the irony of it
maybe absent,
but
he always loved the
dying chance of
no-limit poker--
to walk away,
all or nothing
with the flip of a card
and
he tucked this faith
into his heart pocket
and he’s never quite
let it stop
beating.
and so,
he taught ME
to live
without a seatbelt,
to accelerate
through speed bumps,
to run stop signs and
red lights and
drive and
drive
and
drive
without a destination.
he said,
speed limits are just suggestions.
and,
with the sun spilled
over the spaghetti clouds,
the air is warm
and the mountains
decadent,
painted
in tomato sauce streaks
and dotted
with people
in their flesh tone dances,
each dot of
kaleidoscopic life
like welcome signs--
neon lights
open for business
and
I have some spare change,
a tank of gas and a compass that
never
points north, so I
shake it up
like a newborn snow globe,
make it beautiful
and
drive.
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