Wanna Get Away Day

A Möbius sonnet in a quantum armchair attracts photons. it’s not uncommon to find me snorkeling on the ceiling on Wanna Get Away Day. My revolt insisted on moving toward willpower. I knew this day would come. But I didn’t expect it to be so down-to-earth. The smell of clay runs toward the abstract unless it can be treated with cabbage. I have often found this to be the case. The first time I saluted a flag I felt grabbed by something. That's when I knew that one day I would have to fight a strategic adversary within. A bald eagle or a gnome embalmed in honey. Meanwhile I get by on selling cashews at the flea market. My face is cracked and withered and so invites a degree of trust. Life is a pilgrimage, that’s for sure. The trail is instinct with dispossession. Primitive ferns and lizards. The abyss glows with lava. And is there to remind me what a joke a lot of these streaming services are. A lot of motels don’t even put the big screen TVs where you can watch them from your bed. Nobody watches them. They look at their phones instead. Travel boosts my appreciation of divine guidance. My hearing thickens at the horizon. Maturity has charms that youth never had. At age sixteen I crashed into a wall that I later discovered is a phenomenon called reality. People in heated arguments are fond of invoking that word. I puzzle over it, pummel my fists into it like a punchbag. As I got older, I began to see it sag like the breasts of an old woman running an automotive shop in Lubbock. The word itself convulsed on the page like a furry accordion doing a mazurka. Men shivering in doorways. Memories aglow in the dark. That first day in Chicago when Bo Diddley opened the door to Chess Records. That sense of the beyond that never goes away, and generates such a lovely sense of anarchy. It’s a fiery little word, tough like Barcelona leather, and built like a Möbius sonnet.