I always feel like I’m running.
Not running away, there’s no such thing.
Just running forward towards something.
There’s no such place.
With how long I've been running
surely I'd have found it by now.
I've though of what it must look like.
Something could be a field
buried in a brilliant, sunlit cloud of alfalfa.
It could be a tundra,
frozen and without borders.
vivid with life, green and flourishing.
A mountain, lurching
over a city,
and in the city there would be nothing but good men.
No liars, nor cheats.
Just good men and good women,
good drink and bad bars,
blocks and city blocks of motels
riddled, reeking with the smoke of cigarettes
smoked sometime post-sex.
And in the city there would be nothing but goodmen
raving and ranting, chanting for more
These stairs sure are steep,
I best not fall.
Something could be a desert.
The dunes would stretch, immaculate, across my vision.
The horizon would be sun, sand, and sun again.
Is the sky still blue in a desert?
Is desert wind built of language and faith, or just oxygen heated to boiling?
Is the night full of hushed whispered deviance?
Is the night bent over the day's sofa?
Is he waiting for sunrise?
Rise, sun, rise,
what are you waiting for?