Commute

If I believe my own voice

to be the voice of the poem,

I lose credibility, lose my integrity,

lose my attachment to the basket

of that hot air balloon we call wonder,

beginning to listen to my thoughts

instead of opening myself

to the vistas and visuals

of a disappearing world.


Notice how no one auto-tunes the birds

as they migrate overhead,

as they shout out their triangulations

and ping pong echoes

guiding themselves wherever instinct wills

beyond those seemingly vacant hills

long reduced to matte paintings and background noise

accompanying mindless drives

to and from the nowhere we call our lives.


Notice the absence of photoshop blurring tools

to smooth imperfect canyons,

make the multi-creviced mountains

into blot-gray slumbering seals with dolphin skin,

just more scrolling reflections against windows

and windshields where the heart is a distraction,

and the sunset is a blindness

to be shielded against for better commutes.


Next to the road is a river,

next to the river is a forest,

next to the forest is another forest,

and beyond that, the snow-capped peak

that seems to breathe smoke

into the treetops,

pine needles filtering light

like kaleidoscopes for squirrels,

where the sound softens to footsteps on sand,

and the air begs to be held

just a bit longer in the lungs. 

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