(another poem about transportation for your amusement)
Waiting for a bus on a schedule that yawns
Even speeding on unknown freeways,
it moves like a lazy burro.
is written somewhere on a scroll.
And chronos is bent into inertia in my mind,
where split moments and infinity are united
by an unknowingness that defies all plans.
And rationality is pressed beyond the mundane,
beyond philosophy even, to where
all meaning converges at the bus stop –
by now, a pulsating icon
and a portal to other momentums.
All this, lest bus and bus stop
become a mortar and pestle
that turns recycled plastic benches into destiny
(or a long walk becomes a long wait with the illusion of motion).