I'm looking for terrorists
In jeans, clean-shaven,
But with a bulging mid-riff.
Will he have a back-pack,
Carry a brown paper lunch
With a portmanteau.
I just gave the valet my keys,
And I didn't check his shoes
And certainly not his under-armour.
I live ten thousand miles away,
Just down the street;
So why hurt me.
We cheer for the Bo-Sox
Side by side,
He's familiar to my eyes.
I believe he was changing my oil
When I saw the sideways glance,
But I can't be sure,
When I don't know
What to look for.

Heroes occluded from view have sifted through her ashes so you don't have to
And they sleep under different stars than those that won your adoration.
They take breaths of giants,
Their shouts a spurious sideband hissing through ambivalent night,  
A soliton refracted amongst a billion points of light.

Within my dakota dream, rests your rock
within your rock, I sleep like sunken ships
and when we wake, songs breathe to life
inside the ghost of irate storms
and lilies on the edge of streams dance
to no preying eyes.

You're writing poems on the ice again
the suite of the pioneer cannot slip.
Who won't like your bedside nonsense
it gave us time to think.

I've just enough time left
to flip a penny to midnight sky
and ride away on the trails of a high wish
inside the bark of trees old men find remedy of
within their breast, old secrets murmured in broken sleep.

It's here.
It's come.
Time to leave.
Again.

Don't bother turning out the light
it was never on.

The nightly news suggested that my clan and friends
and poetry and me gather all of our things
and evacuate the city but because my folk
are people in the margin, people in financial

strain shaped by oppression, I have - instead - loaded things
and bodies into a single caravan and am
en route to you because you are smoother and longer
and stronger, taller than the tallest road in the world.

In my mind, you have become the road; a road whose peak
is 18,000 feet, a road whose place is between
the East and West, a road whose beginning has no end
and a road whose end has no beginning - none at all.

Heavy rain. Flood water. High wind, the weatherman said.
For years, I have been compelled to take this road, to ride
its curves with finesse, to drift in a single gear for
miles, to go and go and go on the smoothest road 'round.

For years, I have been compelled to take this road, to be
elevated at 18,000 feet - yes, to be
transported closer to heaven, to be and be and
be on the longest, strongest, tallest road in the world.

En route, an elderly man asked me, Why her, young man, why
her? I shifted gears. Accelerated up a hill
of you and said, Because she has exceeded all things.
Exceeded what, young man, exceeded what? Do tell. Do.

All other roads and passageways, the labyrinth of
life, everything, sir, everything.

And how do you know we will survive along this road?
he asked.

Because no matter the point of origin, so long
as we are on the road of her, there will be fields whose
crops are plenty - always in season, brooks whose water
never recoils, and rivers of milk that do not spoils.