it is what it is

i am no poet and this isn't about poetry.
it is what it is.
free.
in the face of it all -- forgive me for my timing and the lack thereof, my hallmark language and nonchalance:


we rode north on elm
the lights were perfect
the streets deserted
a movie set, artificial bliss
empty developments, wooded roads, and an endless stretch
we rode out to escape elsewhere
anywhere but there
15 miles and past city limits
greensboro receded into the past, the distant past
past lakes and their reflections, life, its transparent counterpart
we rode north past fields
as the city slept
out to a church with its blackened windows
under the streetlamps, the shadows flicker and flare
beneath the spokes
we rode down air harbor
airport
miles of white, another terrain
visceral
and out until we thought we were free
'let's find the end' we said
and the wind shrieked and whistled us on

the end came in cookie cutter houses and deserted windows
right or left, here or back
we ended at a roundabout
curving with the cul de sac
the wind silenced, peddling uphill
the repetition of the recent past
trudging by
with the sudden coolness of reality
full circle

we tried to leave
we tried to escape
stretch the first circle elliptical
stretch it to a line, infinite
but it always comes back
and roundabout we are back again

we are nothing here
neither here nor there
a tiny fragment of time
a knot to become undone
parts to the puzzle never truly assembled
nothing goes but nothing stays
ripped and sewn

we live in this childhood world
a fantasy with adult repercussions
we love and war
the romance
but what do we expect
the idealism of adolescence tears at our senses

we rode in a dream
through an intoxicating cloud
we pushed against the border
a synthetic womb
but found ourselves flung back
the harsh truth of life and loss
cutting our cheeks as we digress

we ride in a dream
a straight line, there and back
but somehow elsewhere

03:21, 07.22.06






time is a lie

i is we