already packed
hours early so i
can soak up the
stringent anxieties
background radiation
causing static
inteference in the
regularly scheduled
misery of another
truncated sunday
four hours
watching hawks as
west texas becomes
a brown blur
the first in a
series of hotels
and new vistas
i tell myself
it won’t be so bad
knowing full well
my mind is
making mountains
in the sink holes
the traveling fool
and his menagerie of
misguided intentions
peddling poisons
calling them prose
as the miles tick
and i wonder if
the farther west
i drive will my pleas
carry over the desert
my love finally
finding the ocean
unlikely
but it isn’t as if
it will throttle
the constant hum
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
Somehow this that your wrote:
misguided intentions
peddling poisons
calling them prose…
made me think of how vaccines are made.
so a little bit of poison eventually becomes the “cure”
or rather builds immunity
Of course I’m interacting with and projecting onto your poem… but I like that it provoked the reaction/thought.
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that works for me, better than me calling my prose poison at least.
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we humans are our own poison and antidote perhaps. Your poems are cathartic to me. I feel the openness and truths in them as healing… even when in despair. The human being of them is beautiful. So real.
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thank you, Georgie. i feel seen
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