My head is a
place where twisted
roads live,
and the signs that
line the freeway
in my mind all
have question marks

and ellipses,
dots out into nowhere
alongside arrows,
pointing in circles.

And yet I keep walking,
stopping for directions,
and trying to read
these capricious signs.

Their mockery
doesn’t impress me,
their utter disregard 
for the paths I take,
instead concerning 
themselves with arbitrary
cold commands
and their willingness 
to control
the steps I take.

Don’t they realize
that their confusing instructions
and backwards navigation
is nothing but fog and clutter?
That these accusatory rules
rest only on my willingness to follow?
Don’t they see
how I choose
not with my feet,
not with my brain
or the signs along the way,
but instead,
I use my heart to guide me away
from the darkness?

(This is part of a poetic collaboration between myself and Christopher Rupley. Check out his work on his blog, The Brown Bag Special.)


3 thoughts on “Roads

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