It is lonely

and wonderful
with and without
whatever it is
I'm without or with;
whomever it is
or isn't
I lack

The stars stand clear
of human history;
their lights are shortcuts
to any past,
if time and distance
aren't illusions
somewhere in the firing
of synapses

I hold my body accountable

I open my self forcibly
to the vast and wild,
breathing hard
in nothingness,
searching for myself
in my face,
covered by sights;
sounds listening
all around me;
silence chatting
on a billion smartphones

The rodeo in Mesquite
dusty;
Saturday Night Jamboree
in Irving
tilting away from 1978

Where is Marian?

I offer myself up
to the northern nights,
lifted out
into immediate ever;
an asylum for one and all

I hear Anna breathe
when I flare through Andromeda,
hands aware of feet,
feet hands knowledgable,
all directions mingling
on the outskirts
of sentience

You can stay occupied
with chance
and coincidence,
but everything wears off

You may invest
your emotions
and all the practical workings
of life
in dear people,
but they wear off too

Some even have their identity
wear off

That's when truth is naked,
and on the other side of that,
the seasons wear off,
and the idea of anything
at all
pulls down the hat
and crouches
into oblivion:

A cup of tea smoking;

the armies falling backwards
into the sinkhole of time