When I drive
in darkness
I like to
let rain fall
without
interference
and watch
for the light
waiting in each
landed drop
to spark at
oncoming traffic,
I watch a
long time
and wonder
sometimes about
the total law of
probability
but I am no
mathematician
and luck
has steered
my hands
truly
thus far.

To love a writer
Is to be in a constant war
With their battling emotions
And their need to exist
Because writers
More often than not
Are the saddest beings on the planet

To love a writer
Is to be awake at three in the morning
Reading their newest work
Because they want you at your most honest
When you tell them that
It's either absolute **** and not worth being awake for
Or it's so beautiful that you'd never sleep again to read it

To love a writer
Is to be constantly analyzed
Under a watchful eye
Because they want to learn to write you down
They want to describe you
When she sleeps, her hair looks like the night sky
Beautiful and dark
*I only hope I can be the moon that lights her smile

Some memories are so beautiful
That they never fade away
Cutting across the darkness
To light up the present moments
Into eternity they will travel
Bringing solace till the last
They are not meant to let go
Till we have seen the last day

You open
the
fortune cookie
and
there is
nothing
inside

He exchanged his
routines
for the
long dusty road,
he exchanged his
jeans
for a long white jacket
he called it the "white robe."
His hat said "Home"

He took off on the
road only travelers
go.

He had a pretty girl
he was was going to see,
then he knew
he would have to leave.

He stopped saying much,
mainly "thank you"
and "please".

He had exchanged
his mind set
for a new set,
his confusion for clarity
his narrative for poetry,
many said
it had led him astray.

He exchanged his
fullness for emptiness
and
began to take it all in,
the old dusty road became
the only way he knew at all.

He would stand in perfect silence
and
hear it all.
He would stand in perfect stillness
and
travel it all.

He exchanged his awake routines
for dreams.

He traveled here and there,
where ever
that dusty old road
would take him,
some places made sense,
some were flashes
of total innocence.

He had exchanged
his expectations
for creations.

He could love you on the road,
be with you
but with you
he would never go home.

Rumor has it
it was his fatal flaw.

He had exchanged
success and failure
for
experience,
he avoided many a cliff
many a fall
in having it all.

You won't find him
hitchhiking
panhandling
soliciting or pandering
selling drugs
or
in bed with your mother.

You'll find him in the whispers
you hear
in the rainbow aura
around street lamps
on night time
deserted streets,
the meteor at midnight
the green flash at sunset.

He had exchanged
staying for going
and
he was on his way
with dust devils
blowing
behind him.