as I swerve, the images of people shouting
going past other cars, I only see the blurred
blackness of the speedway in front of me
my hands and feet locked into step with
my senses, I feel and hear nothing else
except the beat of my heart and the thump
of the engine as I think of racing through the
waving flag that tells me I’m king
that would be nice, I hear myself say
watching the champion hit the finish line on tv.
Do I want to sing today? Can I sing today?
Should I learn to play something instead?
My body digs the music that I am hearing
and I want to rely on something of my own
than have my body betray me to the groove
of someone else’s making.
The glint of sunlight on the waves pulls my attention
towards the lone figure, standing on his board
sure of his ability to ride the raw power of what lies
beneath him for hundreds of feet, propelling him
with such force, yet he stands and gracefully
tunnels through whatever slaps the ocean throws at him
I sit and wander how I would feel if I could control
such a beast and glide alongside him.
The gracious curves of the museum houses
the best of art history has to offer
colors so vivid, my eyes grow wide as I watch
the fluid shapes of strange yet beautiful
artifacts surrounded by serene, painful and surreal
landscapes that came out of somebody’s
imagination so out of this world only they could
have thought of it.
Surely the pilot on my flight has thoughts similar to mine
yet she toils away, from place to place
away from places and people and things she knows
and misses every time she flies the likes of me
taking us where we want to be. Surely she sees
and longs for things I see and long for
But, then again she loves flying and I can understand
For I would do the same over and over again.
What about the books, what wonderful worlds they create
and the places they take me, away from reality
even for a bit, sometimes delving me into the
depths of abstractness suddenly so bright,
I finally understand the murky and the unknown
just because someone took the time to write
down what they thought the world should know.
These houses I see, some buildings and some bridges
such beautiful forms, so fragile and so strong
a paradox that could only have come from the minds
of artists, though hidden behind them would probably
be sweats and hours of thousands of unknown faces
Oh, how I admire them all and wish I could, even for
a day, imagine myself standing proud in front of
a monument I helped build, smiling and satisfied.
These thoughts are but a few samplings
of a sea of longingness that I find myself
drowning in, coming up for air, floating
swimming and diving
sometimes taking a taste of a few
sometimes missing them by a
an always changing perception,
this is the amorphous me.