I gave up on the road for the very same reason that I gave up smoking weed,
because both of them are windows but not doorways to identity,
and travel for the sake of travel reaps very little at all of value,
unless we are a place in steady motion like a river.
Our human roots gasp in the highway’s hurricane of accidents,
and in our dreams we hunger wide for boredom’s ordered flat-lands,
and the radios that wash them with fresh music every day,
while we work the fields of gravity to harvest weekly pay,
which sets us free to dance inside of the routines of ritual,
perfecting gestures, decorating mantras mimed habitual,
thus polishing each moment till they become events shining
just like beacons guiding those behind us on the inner highway.
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