I've roamed to the corners of the world.
And never have I seen a sunset more
compelling than the sunset back home.
Maybe, from where I'm standing now
None compares to the sunsets at Manila
Maybe, you'd know what I'm talking about
When I would someday show you why

Instead of where I stand, I wish I was there
With you by my side, watching our special
sunsets. Like the world was meant just for the two of us. As much as each sunset gleams, it shines with much fervor every moment we see it. Maybe, it's just an illusion, or maybe it's real. But the most wonderful sunsets are at home with you.

Fitzgerald wrote
of a faint green light
(and so many other things too)
"So we beat on, boats against the current, ceaselessly into the past."

Am I beating on, now? Face pressed
against the cold window,
I feel the wheels beneath me
rolling and rolling
slapping against the pavement,
but that's not me.
That's just the minivan- at most
the person
holding the wheel and pressing the pedal.

They beat on,
petals of a different sort,
elephantine limbs
rotating
rolling like the wheels of the car,
but moving in
a different fashion entirely.

The red lights
      blink
in unison
on
            and off
as each massive
wing crests
and then descends again.

You can't see them
but I know they're there
from the fraction of a shadow
that falls over each
red light.

We're moving too, though
maybe not like Fitzgerald wrote.
This minivan, this minivan
is moving forward
with the current
and the longer I spend
thinking about it,
face against this cold window,
I know I'm
moving forward too.

The man across from me shoves hot dog buns into his gullet rapid fire
The world speeds by and light streaks across the window
It smells like kindergarten children and popcorn
His pants are rolled up high
Sure signs that the flood will be rising soon
Shuffling his feet towards me brushing my foot
This physical contact appears to be entirely intentional
He holds his bag like there's something secret inside
He shifts uneasy
Hands fumbling to stow away the hot dog buns
Siffling slightly
He has long well manicured nails
He looks out the window to avoid eye contact
My stop arrives and I leave taking his impression with me

I am a grounded explorer:
I dream of travelling the stars,
but alas there are few tickets to even Mars.
I romanticize the explorers of yor,
who roamed the oceans to explore.
Oh to be with Captains Lewis and Clark,
an expedition through the wilderness to embark!
The maps are made and the earth is mapped;
The Final Frontier is barely unwrapped.
It is not a do-it-yourself sort of thing,
I cannot just into space my body fling.
To explore the unknown would yield such glee,
But I console myself: at least the world's new to me.

This is a memory of the time I first stepped into a plane,
When I took a seat by the window next to the 80-year old man
And as the world got smaller and bigger the only thing that kept me sane
Was that I was a lonesome traveler without a plan.
And all the while my insides churned and the cocktail washed the bile,
The man came out of the cockpit to tell us we’d almost land
In Cairo airport, and I could feel the stream of the Nile
In my lungs, and the smell of the mango in my taste glands,
I twisted in my seat to have a better look
At the sad earth I’d soon call my own,
But my lips deceived and my head shook
For Egypt’s glory furiously shone.
                                                         *p.t.

I did not hesitate when I boarded the train,
caught between the salt and German time;
with fingernails yellowed with cigarette grime,
to come to Paris for it's tepid, sweet rain.
Nor I did tremble with with fear and strain,
flexing my pride in Prague with the prime
that only is granted to the young, at nighttime.
I left nothing back by or in home, but I feign--
for crookedly placed by the cold Danube,
I felt a finger of hurt despite my endeavors;
for as water pooled in those iron shoes,
I felt everything that I didn't wish to remember.

Never thought how I feel would reveal me
for how desperately weak I am
despite individual moments
of being the sword to fall
in intense situations.
Growing colder and older,
growing heaviness depletes
the energies I may spend
on myself.

I heard you were in the mood for company.
Could I be
the sword for you, if you'll save me?
The warm for you, if you'll warm me?
I heard you were traveling, companionless.
Could it be
that wandering brought you past
the burrow where I sleep,
for one reason, to complete needs
untended in my home
in equal exchange
In trade
for what may deface the road?