Detached

Detached

Travelling on cruise control, 

I look 

for reference points,

with no visual on reality.

Like chasing rabbits down black holes.

Looking through a telephoto lens on

 an urban landscape life

becomes compressed.

We have our five minutes of fame,

 then gone, like “American Idols”.

Metaphor is the message.

Did Jesus die on the cross,

 or escape to Spain 

with Mary Magdalene?

The heart of spiritual existence scrutinized

 like Doppler radar in a tornado.  

Looking at a satellite photograph 

on Google Earth.com.

It’s all perspective.

A neon sign glows wildly 

on the hood of my car.

Winds blow in from the west.  

I hide behind the wheel,

 in the eye of the storm.

The young woman hitchhiking

 on the ramp promises 

wild sex to go.

She stares in disbelief as I accelerate. 

What does it all mean?

If God doesn’t answer prayer, who does?  

I didn’t get the memo on that.

The trailer park is destroyed.

They didn’t have time to pray.

What do you say to that?

I call my dog and he doesn’t come. 

I find my soul is in a tree around the corner- 

totally detached.

If I click my heels three times,

 will I get back home?

A blue sign up ahead, “Next Rest Stop Ten Miles”

I’m blocked in by two transport trucks:

at least they have runaway lanes.