Ode to Touring

Ah the sweet exhaustion of performing and schlepping gear and driving
infinite hours.
I wake, wishing each morning to again
Sleep,
But am roused by what it is to bring forward
Trails of sound
Murmuring and swelling and striding and gracing through me
To people whose cells they
Collide with
The sounds last only as long as it takes for the waves to die
Only as long as it takes memories to warp
With time

Not long

From inside the moving car
Landscapes bear
Their pieces in fragmented segments
It is only if
I do not watch
I do not yield to the pulling
Beauty of
A thin line of sun struck water moving adjunct
To factory settlements
That I can see the whole
Otherwise, I see the holes
Of what we call America

Rows of houses that are all the same

But through my mind parades an open arena
Of vast thought
That all are marching through

The dwellers of the homes and I share the ability
To divide moments
And lives and see the endless ness
But
we wear our faces
As rows of houses that are all the same

That is why,
At the end of the day
When my sounds have marched in lines
And circled back into me,
When I lay with chasms under my eyes and am
Crawling into sleep
It is the opened
Opens
Of the people who have heard and allowed splintering
That
Flash across the well of my gaze
And trail me into dream
It is the opened
Opens that
Trails me into dream

– Moksha Sommer

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