Trying to navigate these bumpy waves,
While maintaining my gaze with my goals.
It's more difficult than the past me could've ever known.

There's a long dotted line that swerves along my map.
I've marked each stop for when I'll take naps,
but I'm still struggling with unexpected crashes.

A wave flips my boat and and it feels like a million minutes go by
Before I patch things up and things feel okay inside.

It feels like a tear in my map,
the map that lines my heart.
How do you recover when someone from your crew falls overboard?

What if something embarrassing happens during my journey and I can't press restart?
These are the kinds of questions I stay up all night asking the stars.

I Stick the whole world to my wall
and Notice
things that I almost Understand their real meaning

“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”

I lift my pen at the scent of the coming rain.
The wind rises, and I sense the pain gathering strength
and after a beat or two, the drizzle scouts my face
- but I smile.

I have my compass, the North Star
and the maps I made before.
I can still climb this new stanza
navigate past the memorials,
through to the meadows beyond
and I can rest there, refill my pen with the rain
and write again.

I failed to love round, but fallen flat,
My head slumps down, over an ancient map,
My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge,
Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.

~
This level crossing--

stick,
sand,
and broken glass,

from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,

they count the roads, follow their failings--

flow,
force,
and absorb,

dictated by a headlight,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,

motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,

mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--

to fall in love with our progress,
and yet be outgrown by it.
~

No one catch up to me
I am far too gone

There is no map to place I go
There are no lingering footsteps to where I am

You'd miss me
for a day or two
but then, time fixes it
and I'd be a distant memory