With flat roads and a tailwind

we were flying, crossing state lines

with sunlight to spare.

Nirvana, Flow, In the Zone.

Borders fused—

feet, pedals, rows of wheat.

Thoughts floated out of their ruts,

dispersed like milkweed.  

 

So why did consciousness have to intrude,

snap its fingers, break the spell.

Like a town crier warning of doom, its karmic voice

swept in—for every tailwind, a headwind—

and just like that bliss disappeared. Dread

returned as my amulet, a weapon to wave

like Kuma’s nunchucks hidden

beneath his sleeping bag.