The notebook is open.
What am I gonna write?
Never enough yet.
And we’re still driving, not yet arrived.


I‘m going too fast
to read all the signs.


Car with stickers.
A driving mural.


I don’t have to go to South Africa.
It’s come here.


We can never forget
South Africa and apartheid.
Why are they so pushy
to remind us?
Why does he pretend?


I never thought it would come so soon,
the engulfing tide.
I try to hold on
to whatever’s left.
I empathize with you
if you can’t swim.


Kristina says
If a certain message
pops up on your phone,
don’t touch it,
it’s a scam.
Call me.
I say yes, I will
call you
but not on my phone.
I’ll put the phone down
as if it burned my fingers
and hold my breath
until it’s safe to breathe again.


I can’t get away from it,
the world.
It follows me.
There’s nothing much
that I can do
or not do
as I sit here in
the back seat of the car
while you’re driving
unable to sleep
as I write words
I hope are not the last.


There’s room on the page
there always is
for more
and if I fill it up
I can always
turn the page


I pass new billboards.
More and more people
are advertising.


I’m wearing myself out
riding and writing.
I close my eyes to sleep
then startle and say
“What did I miss?”


I know the answer
before the question.


enough
is never enough


When we get there
I’m going to get out of the car
and walk around.
I’m not a machine
you can plug in
or feed to keep going.


Even when I bend over
only at an angle
can I see my navel.


I smile at the signs
passing by
all the places
I’ve never been
and never will


getting off the freeway
time for me to drive
sooner than I thought
no
this time
it’s just to get gas
and check the tires


Look over there
by the parked car
turkeys
what are they doing there?
They escaped from the market.


Even if you cut out my tongue
that won’t stop me from talking.


Maybe so,
but please
put away the knife.


The tire pressure’s fine
Ah, life
Not everything loses


I’m so old
I’m losing my inhibitions.

See where that gets you.

I already know where
Been there done that
I just don’t know when.

Or how?
Yes.
Or why?
Yes.
Or who?
Not yet
Maybe not ever
Because already


Hamlet to Ophelia:
It would cost you a groaning
To take off mine edge.
Ophelia to Hamlet:
Oh goodie
Let’s groan
Stop mastering
Your importunity


Woof


Like the big bad woof?
Not so big
And not so bad
But definitely woof.


More windmills
No whales

I’m driving past water
that will never get
to Southern California


I’m not like the Bosnian
who when threatened by Nazis
with flaying to make a lampshade
took a knife
stabbed himself
over and over
in the chest
and said
“Here is your lampshade!”
I’m not like that

I’m mild mannered
until push comes to shove
then watch out!

It’s only fair
that I give you fair warning


whadda you
gonna do
about it,
say words?

Yes.


Oh, oh, you got me!

I see you pretending,
making a joke,
clutching your chest,
falling down,
but then I see you
unable to get up.


Those little mounds
are green.
The gophers
are resting
or on strike.

More people
should sit in the back seat
while I’m driving
so they’ll see
what I saw
when I was there
and someone else was driving.


Not driving
takes the pressure off
from looking at the road


There’s a world out there!
Yes,
out there.


I wish I could sleep
a little more
or shut my eyes
against the passing thoughts
like those sheep there
flocking more than
I can herd together


There’s a calf
a bouncing scamper
running ahead of its mother

Ah, youth
the hope of the future
running ahead


Why are those flags
still flying at half-mast?
Isn’t the occasion over?
I notice that our flag
is more complicated
than all the others.
We have more
going on.


I’m putting my pen away
for now
as we change drivers
and it’s my turn

But I’ll be back


Sometimes I put my pen
in my other pocket
so I won’t lose it
so long as I remember
where it is.
That’s how I control the future.

You can too.


That last bit
was a postscript
added because
it’s not too late
to add
and I’m still not driving yet.


Just one more thing

I take out my pen
put it back
take it out
put it back
it’s like the mechanical
bobbing duck
dipping into its water glass
and people say
in happy awe
“It’s like perpetual motion”
and I say
“Almost.”

So I keep my pen out
until we really stop.


I close my eyes
to sleep like a cat
my fingers loosen
my pen falls to the floor


My pen has become the hero
of its own story
a real saga
heroic
re-readable


When I write something long
some people say it’s too much
give me what I want
short and easy

but then those thinking readers
say
too short
give me more

I try
to pacify
and satisfy
both
at least
some of the time


They say
“You can’t please everybody”
and I say
“Why not?”
and they say
“Because”
And then I notice
passing an orchard
of sleeping trees
one stands out
in full bloom