It is hot now, and it has been that way
for far too long; the days and nights each blend
into one tremendous strain of endless
drenching heat; I wish for the Summer to
end, finish itself in a fit of rain,
wind, and hurricane wiping Florida
from the cartographer’s hand, so the map
of the world should no more be read having
me at any point, latitude or line
of longitude that stretches across far
and vast reaches that are connected fast
by wires and words, where, if someone looked
they would not find me, even if God looked
or sought there would be not a shadow’s way
of finding me, once I had been thrown far,
far out of existence beyond the line
of God’s sight into nothing where, having
been nothing, my memory will fade fast
from those who engage in empty, endless
chatter and from those who love me, will blend
into grey like fading lines on a map
that has been left by a child in the rain
where all the states and countries drift into
one blue-green globule; like the Florida
swamplands’ edges that blur like Florida
blurred to Disney-bound children who looked
out from rear windows blanketed with rain
kneeling on a wrinkled unfolded map
of origami proportions that blend
in creases and multiply two by two,
rendering the valleys connecting the far
fields of America in a one way
crevasse, tearing in a dark and endless
scar the North from the South, a tear having
all the authority of a chalk line
or black and white sign, that once posted fast
to a wall or lamppost will, just as fast,
incite readers to wrath, in Florida
or any other place on Earth, having
spirited souls shoved into long, endless
lines all leading away from any way
but the true way, the one perfect line
of light that shines through the dark as the rain
storms on nights where light lies silent, unlooked
for in near cities or shores that lie far
from the horizons where lights and stars blend
to a haze, unlocated on a map
made by astronauts who look down onto
hemispheres once divided into two
by cartographers and kings who held fast
to beliefs that were unable to blend
of bend towards the aspect of being far
sighted; even as a traveler looked
upon a shore unresembled by map,
there would be no question of sight having
fault—there is a fountain in Florida
that will give us youth as the clouds give rain—
story and lore have always been the way
of the truth and the light in an endless
deception of false faith that lights the line
like an acrobat on a power line
or a gifted child prying her way to
knowledge cluttered by forever one way
promises that wash away in the rain
that floods the concrete plains of Florida
which stream towards the ocean in endless
and circling patterns, all of which blend,
at one point, where the land and sea are fast
becoming one, without shoreline, having
no distinction except where it is looked
for and only then if looked for from far
off as if from the viewpoint of a map;
I cannot find this road on any map,
I break out of my thoughts to a while line;
just a moment ago gone when I looked
for it but now comfortably having
returned, I think I am going too fast
in this thunderstorm that reaches out far,
farther than for me there would be a way
to see to because where I can see to
is barely one white line and its black blend
of corresponding asphalt; Florida,
driving and churning with turbulent rain
seems a vast expanse of grey-green endless
shrieks of noise punctuated by endless
miniscule vibrations of rain; my map,
useless beside my seat is Florida
lean, all the highways and interstates blend
into one another until the two
lane roads sweep me into the waiting rain
where, though I may have painstakingly looked,
nothing is familiar but the white line
on my left which is always giving way
to black, endless asphalt and just as fast
reclaims its position, as if having
the scent of serenity would go far
in a tempest that flings itself out far
in every direction, each one endless
and redoubling on itself like fast
flashes of lightning that travel one way
down and then back up again, a cracked line
of light, illuminating those having
joy at the fireworks of Florida;
I believe I am again on the map,
things are now as they were when I first looked
at them as a boy, years ago, two
lifetimes ago, it should be, all things blend
like the streaks on my windshield in the rain
that pounds ceaselessly, the Florida rain
that comes only once in August, from far
away; maybe one year it will come two
times, a whisper of September unlooked
for, not unwanted, like spots on no map
of interest that often easily blend
into the forests as one passes fast
on the billboarded highway with endless
white and yellow lines that fill Florida
like jarheads, squids, or children fill a line
in that eager and mindless sort of way,
an obedience that comes from having
faith in ones elders or leaders, having
this faith tends to fall away like the rain
though, leaving scattered faces and no line
which is still what these roads of Florida
look like to me as I, on an endless
journey, continue to not find my way,
ambling pointless, like the Summer seems to
every year at this time, when it has gone far
enough and I just wish Fall would come fast
but when I glance as the year’s numbered map
I see more months and wish I had not looked,
hours, days, and weeks have all begun to blend
into one endless smear, a tepid blend
of waiting for and the lack of having
something that is as vague as an old map
written down on vellum in a sharp, fast
hand with terra infirma over far
plots of Earth, and Leviathans that looked
for ships as a fish seeks worms on a line;
my traveling is still blinded by rain
and I have now almost forgotten to
where it is I am going, this endless
rain and pondering in my Florida
has befuddled and obscured what my way
was: my path, my way, my goal, they all blend
into endless ripples in my mind, to
the tapping of the rain of Florida,
water that leaks onto my map having
now just one unblurred line I’ve driven far
and fast to find somewhere I have not looked.
Burlesque Press 