A week and a half into my continent-trotting parade, and I have seen many states that look exactly the same as the provinces north of them. I have seen many freeways, the bloodveins of a restless nation, where people drive too fast and where there are too many greasy roadside distractions. Another week and a half and I’ll be looking out upon more of this state, from the window of a bus where I’ll sit, alone, in motion. Another week and a half and I’ll be heading towards
Prose that slowly burns off its skins of usefulness, exposing the raw stuff of beauty
that lies embedded in the poetry’s subtle gestures.
This is how we live; observing, accomplishing tasks,
carrying out our various modes of survival.
All the while pushing for the thing that makes it all worth carrying on at all.
The thing that for many of us is nameless, but stronger and louder than
anything we’ve heretofore been able to name.
Poetry, force your way through the mundane flurry of words I write.
Redeem this language. Brighten this day. Amen.