Heading Home

My mind mirrors the clogged stream at my feet, spaghetti leaf stems and long three pronged pine needles, the kind you pulled apart like a wishbone as a kid, divert flow allowing only a small trickle . Thoughts have been this way the past few days. The valve in my mind rusty, letting only a single drop intermittently kiss the galvanized synaptic steel rim before falling out my mouth. No postcards, no observations, no making time for me. A stranger said it was good, it means you've been busy. I said well maybe, but I think you're wrong, I've been neglecting. Three chocolate kisses, a stale cracker, a red apple stolen from a tree, washed down with a few swallows of water reeking of lavender air freshener. I'm naucious and tired. Drove 300 miles the first day of return. The bike went down. Before I knew what I'd gotten myself into it was too late. A dirt road steep with ruts the size of olympic moguls, it was too much. Stayed up most of the night, moaning and begging to be freed of my condition. Finally around midnight I puked, lifted my head to see a shooting star, naked dreams soon followed. There are some secrets we weren't meant to know: back by Silver Lake I saw a young rainbow galloping near mountain bluffs careless on a background of heavy blue clouds ignoring his mother's number one rule. Dear friends, there is no barrel of gold to be found, just empty space all around.