Departure

Departure

Yes, folks, this is the day for
my departure;
off to the roads,
to the byways and highways, motels
and greasy spoons of America's Southwest,
hotter than the hobbs of hell,
lying in wait for Miss M 'n Me.

I shall miss our morning ritual,
our misbegotten moments together watching
the sun burst from behind
the fire mountain, and spread
its colors across the surface
of American lake like a
mothernature porno, like
a CGI wet dream.

I will be without poetry
not, for a poet is never
without his/her filters
and senses, sucking up
the environment,
every dew drop,
every sprig of sage,
every beetle and
slithering early bird,
every blossom,
every branch, watching the sun
play jacks on the fat
yellow line, hopscotching
over the empty spaces,
wondering what kind of
morse code the lines are
up to, dit dit da, da dit
da dit, da da.
Fodder for poems of the
future, icons for the
collage, the kalidescope
that churns in my visual
pathways, overturning,
overriding the mundane,
making every moment some
kind of drama, tragedy,
farce, fallacy, or
symbol.

Hell, my new glasses
are settling in, my visual
cortex has begun to stop
its vibrating, the windows
are no longer revolving, the
floor is leveling out, the
Camry is gassed up, the car
refrigerator is loaded with
diet Coke and apple juice,
the trail mix is bagged,
the maps are folded, the
Garmin GPS is cranked up
and sassy, the hand sanitizer
is plentiful, the artificial
tears are ready for action,
the air conditioner is fully
charged--oh mama, looks
like it is road trip
party time.


Glenn Buttkus June 2009