I hear you speak of escape,
of a dirty bus stop at the edge of the earth
and single bag packed with the essentials:
a toothbrush, cat food, and sex--
but I am told by people to mind my step
to fear bombs in the ground, in the sky,
and carried within holy men and pregnant women.
I am told to stay away from folks with clothes on
as I cannot seduce them all.
On the tiled bathroom floor, where I write in isolation,
my laugh echoes through steam, at people and you,
a naked and limbless poet.
I laugh because bombs need not scare me away
from the anti-social creature man has become
and the call of the open road
has been out of tune for decades
people are bears in caves,
and I prefer water.
My universe is made of water.