Yesterday I feasted
On the exquisite prose of hitch-hikers.
This morning I extricated myself,
Shed the trappings of substance,
Turned my back on the phony
Surface of banal existence,
And hiked without a hitch.
Hitch-hikers seek-out the art of life.
They hitch rides in strange cars
And jump in and out of lives.
They view celluloid-like dimensions
In alternate realities,
Through alternating windscreens.
Hitch-hikers go with the clouds
Not in them nor under them.
They take cameras and capture
Drips of eternity in the instant of splashing
Unrepeatable patterns on the canvass of mortality.
At night they sleep in abandoned doughnut shops
And see Salvador’s clock oozing through
Shadows between broken tiles in the ceiling.
They see reflections in paneless windows.
They dance with fate and lose themselves in life.
Then, filled with creativity and a sense that
Everything is a metaphor for everything else,
They return and write beautiful prose
For us cyber-hikers to delight in.
I only got as far as the park,
And my adventure only lasted two hours,
But in that brief time
I saw a sonnet, three Haiku’s, and this.