On Insurgence

Stifling, with dreams like
paper truths cremated
in the basement of the

Ministry, with intent
to burn all life and all
ambition out of me

Eternally, while my
sluggish heart hardly cares;
and all creation sits

Soundlessly, with faces
melting into blue-grey
oceans of digital

Urgency, with muteness
stemming from delusion
that our words are billed by

Quantity, and I?

I just want to float down frosty rivers,
navigating rapids and

To swim in sunny surf,
pursued by Poseidon and outsmarting the sirens and

To cross this continent by train,
rambling with Kerouac and all the tumbling miles of track
and singing with the click-clack and
To simply BE
breathing in the mountain air
or hiking all these cobbled stairs
or laughing with a brilliant old friend

At a table
in a bar
on a riverbank
with a drink
and a warm smile.