Southbound towards Tijuana

The way it was and

the way I saw it well

neither really aligned,

which is why I guess

perhaps, I suppose

I’ve made it this far driving

Southbound towards Tijuana

watching my dreams fade

in the rear view mirror

knowing now the utopia I sought

was never bound to be orthodox

or American, or not but

foreign enough to appear genuine,

parked by the halogen glow

of another lone motel, stale air

and stained sheets of a

dystopian relevance

that makes this all seem o.k.

all prose burn in heaven

I get the soul’s impression

that all prose burn in heaven.

Each homeward bound confession

chased tales back and forth.

Bipolar dreams depression

that yearn for common ground,

a fingers length extension

too tame to make a sound.

If all dogs go to heaven

who’s there left to be found?

A mother’s womb that’s kickin

an unborn Ezra Pound.

It’s with this last expression

your love comes to me now.

Released to death’s progression

a compass pointing north.