The Screaming Sheep

Rumor has it there are places
even emails cannot go,

strange lands where voicemails

hang in limbo and snail-mail

appears rarely slash barely.

 

High on a hill ringed with discarded cups
and paper bags that blend into the scenery,
I look out over scrub pines, further out
to waves that ripple paint chip gray.

This far north, the zenith fails to blue.

There’s nothing to lift a perspective.

One gazes at what’s underfoot, ahead

a purple thistle that looks almost chatty,

a water-stained copy of Yeats.

 

Someone snores in a room nearby.

A militia of ants collects then disperses.

 

I can’t stop my brain’s rearranging
now that I’ve exited the cubicle hours,

and risen above the sub-basements,

the ground floor and the mezzanine.

 

Note to self: The examined life is antithetical

to escalator culture that loops every 9 to 5.

 

Here wherever here is

I hear a bird chirp twice

like a cheap squeeze toy

caught in the mouth of a happy dog.
And yes, I feel finally free.

 

Delete me already.

Control alt delete me for good.

Escape.