Whorled weary for this world’s woes
worsened by winter’s whistling
wicked wishes as worrying
as this watch of one’s web life ebb,
and if that’s not maudlin enough,
sick of this car’s cough, too,
its needy changes and fillings,
its overheated tantrums, leaks,
stalls, and traffic jams, the orange
cones and potholes and all ways
waged in fees and duns and one’s
fief windblown like the shabby
tatty cat hunkered for the night
in the trash can gust opened.
Some correlation perhaps:
unhappiness and the automobile,
for there is nothing mobile
that is unwitting.

Accidental and aleatoric lines
alienate awareness precisely
where we desire to go
reading off the water
listening listing cant
in this sham breeze
what would an alien see?
Earthlings have wheels,
their eyes light up at night,
and there are these other
creatures that wash them,
feed them, and care for them.
There appears to be a symbiotic
relationship between the metal
boxes and the asphalt lines.
More study is needed to ascertain
how the Earth benefits.

Weary then of the keen privilege
to sound dog-tired exhausted
old hat hack comes to an end
sidetrack dismantle yard
all you need is love sang John
I’m sick of love replied Dylan
in Love Sick on Time Out
of Mind full of walking
and waiting.

Turn off, tune out, drop in
drop in sometime and say hi
live within walls if you must
but keep the doors open
the windows loosely lighted.
Get on now and move about
nothing just motion one purpose
one motion transforming
breathing energy fizz of life.
This is work, let us not
automate our own motion.