No Map Needed

The architecture of my mind catapults the past into suspended animation, hovering over barren lakes like a hot-air balloon, all jets firing, casting the crest of creation. Still thriving at the Omega point -- the end prophesied in the beginning -- no one notices the clumsiness of dancing on air. Fabric-encased cubicles craft the perfect black hole of loneliness. No light enters, exits. Outside, butterfly bushes bloom in a lavender cul de sac. Keep right, keep right to circle back. Each uneven line of the poem: an epitaph for the living. Mother Nature throws out the bathwater, plants the baby on the throne. Long live the king/queen/knave of our golden fiefdom. Serfs follow seagull tracks in the sand, reach for an elixir to cure the queasiness of sauteed crabs. Guitars wail the haunting riffs of “All Along the Watchtower” as we sail ’round the Cape of Good Hope into our African roots. No map needed, our clan ensconced in the savanna. Faces on the waves. Dreams long forgotten. The past dog-paddles into the future. Hot-air balloon flattens as it lands. Jets fire into grass, finito. Who will sail again?