The Sky is the Ceiling
At red lights the zen method whips to a frenzy
And static is captured from light in the air
So daylong the minutes go flat with disaster
And Gauguin and so long and Godspeed and no more
Explode into rancor that vaguely complies.
He opens the car door and calmly just wanders
In traffic and headlong at tail-end elated,
A nomad of so what that shuts up at shallows
To reel that he's feeling the thrill it implies.
But really he doesn't in drumming the doldrums
That care to impair the indignities manic,
And shouting at windshields and bumpers and daylight
He drives off in limits that don't drag him down.