I remember one glorious time
I had no questions
about anything at all.

The moon was a condor I needed to snare
and I knew I would fall off the mountain
as I did.  And I knew that as I fell

the mountain would change into water,
a great wave in the Pacific tumbling me
into the sea-bed.  I knew that the sea-bed

would refuse me and thrust me high
into the air, higher even than the wave
that first tucked me into it, and that

there would appear at that moment a truer condor
 to forgive me, catch me up in mid air
and carry me back to the mountains

as if nothing had ever happened. 
I did not question then that fantastic things
were happening around me;

how is it
that I have forgotten
how to do that?

An early morning road trip ahead:
long distance, heavy traffic,
not quite enough sleep.

Coffee in my future —
soon enough
in my hand.

Can I make the music loud enough
to carry me all the way 
so that I don’t have to do all the driving?

I’m going to find out,
so will everyone else.
If you hear me coming look up

as I may be flying, not driving.  I’ll be
soaring over my neighbors on the interstate,
borne aloft on Patti Smith, screaming south on Slayer.

I don’t find enlightenment
in sitting or contemplation.  Instead
it comes in fast, crescendos to a peak

north of Hartford on 84,
and usually stays with me
after I’ve returned home

to sit briefly in the driveway,
waiting for that perfect moment
to turn the music off.