The desk comes up to me and tells me
to stop writing on him, he tells me
to stop fraying his edges, that old
oak desk screams at me that I need
to get a f u c k i n g life.

So I travel far in search of myself.

Soft consciousness summoned
intently with the origins
of a delicious warming
icily reflected off the crimson
mountaintops of Northern British Columbia.

I travel far in search of myself.

"Fly far!" I told the rock as
my arm stretched back and it
took flight across the sky into
the cool blue depths of that vast
and lonely lake.

My pillow is a poor substitute for the
warmth and comfort of your delicate arms.

I travel far, wishing I could find a way.

c May, 2000, fc21