Where We Are Going

It is time to set out.
 
Fresh pine breezes
from the mountains
rush down to greet us.
Murmuring sea waves,
far away,
tell of fortuitous
meetings ahead.
Stars remind us
we are all flickering.
 
We, poor fools,
steer by a compass
in the heart,
spinning wildly.
 
Watching trees
waving their branches
in the moonlight,
we sway with them
in a nostalgic wind.
 
We dive into
unknown waters,
emerge,
eyes glowing
with recognition.
 
Dogs bark in dark
harsh towns,
warning us away.
Orange streetlights
cast melancholy
shadows,
while alleys fill with
failed pilgrims,
homesick punks
tossed out with the trash.
 
The road is an insatiable
pike, and delights in eating
the lost.
Wanderers are delicious.
So it is best to stray off
the beaten path.
 
There are guardians
blazing new ways.
Guides appear
when least expected,
are never in a hurry,
but don't stay long.
 
They point out
the unmarked trails
to the next watering hole,
hand us a sandwich,
some chips,
and a beer.
 
These places are oases
where caravans of clowns meet,
erecting pleasure yurts
for naked aesthetes
and nomadic voluptuaries,
who recline inside
with elegant ease.
 
These sites are where
honest thieves hide in
their gentle hostels,
waiting to give away
their booty.
 
And yes, there is a secret
password,
but everybody knows it.
 
There is always room for
one more,
but you have to check
your blade
with the drag queen
at the door.
 
Your plate is always full,
your cup always brimming.
Just one rule:
feed and be fed.
Open wide and wait.
It will come:
the cup to lip,
the bread to tongue.
Then pass it on.
 
This is where Grace lives.
 
This is where we are headed,
whether our heads know it or not.