Nomads Like Us

difficult years on the silent interstate have led me to rest. I am
much too slippery to settle down but I think my friends already knew
that and now have slender expectations for a nomad like me.
privacy, it builds powerful walls
and lets one get a grip
on the thinning past,
dusted lines,
split decisions,
all the junk that I can't let go,
the incoming symbols,
I am a pawn of
privacy.

copping out on this new direction,
on this tired sky,
on this lazy gas pedal,
this percolating concrete,
rummaging in new rain showers
and looking for different days
to fall out of boredom:
the showers become flash floods,
deep puddles are left in the morning,
and if you think you are being watched, it will all end up being
paranoia dripping off the edge of your wet umbrella.

break the moment, you're wanting the cure for dependency, you're too
busy watching you're enemies, you're too careless with your fragmented
rage to even catch your breath...

points are now beginning to intersect, these new days now awakened,
frequent checks of the passport will lead to new hotels and hungry
advice.

those around you will be impressed
by your ability to lie while blowing
smoke rings on a Friday night filled
with laughter, but the one
you really want to talk to will
never really know you as anything more than a stranger.

as you move farther along lonely ground Havana will seem a haven, jet
lag will leave you with ringing ears, six months later nothing will
seem important.

falling, no foundation will lead to
disillusion.

there, once the ice hardens, I shall
join you for lunch, we will talk
about what went wrong, stitch together the details from your head, and
you will ask what comes next, two nomads will roam, the path becoming
clearer as the stereo gets louder you'll go find some coffee as I scan
the streets for weak strangers.

molecules move for the nomads,
persuasion bleeds from the highways,
all the travelers seem to want is a bed, no reason not to believe --
suprisingly they will sleep quite well after the fear.
at noon the sky looks like a Peter Saul painting unsatisfied blobs of
clouds and people with bloodshot reptile eyes look ready for coffins
-- you're really just pissing on a sewer grate when we end up in
California maybe that's why everyone wears flashy black sunglasses.

the bums continue to sleep,
the spare people continue to tweak,
the sports cars continue to suck gas,
the bony models are eating nothing
and whisper promises
of heaven
to producers bloated
by burrowing ego,
we are rebirth:
there is no need to mend
the past as it is already
gone.

the rain is back,
the bums continue to sleep
surrounded by a big vain
mess. I may be losing my
privacy
as I hail a taxi
the day merges
with the angry night
and I am ready for
stage one and I think nomads like us are moving forward, ready for new
days.

~

words: Tyler Cobb, Minnesota (more)
image: Dorothee Lang, Germany (blueprint21)