My One Great Adventure

Nov 24 2011

I find I am living in the future.

Not a grim green-house planet.

Not flying cars.

Not disembodied brains

floating under glass

on life support.

But when there is way more past

than looking forward.

Like a long road trip, unplanned,

that began

with bright-eyed hope

on a well-scrubbed morning

travelling light.

Plenty of time

to accumulate baggage.

Where I went without maps,

slept badly

in flea-bag motels,

depended

upon the kindness of strangers.

Towed, ticketed, and limping-in

out of gas

on thumping flats.

Exits missed

and hitch-hiker lifts

and stuck

in icy ditches.

The body dented and dusted and spattered with bugs,

rust

bubbling-up

just under the surface.

Until the novelty wears off.

The drudgery

of making time, and mileage.

The radio on

with the same sad songs

of love, and loss.

They come in strong, then fade as quickly,

passing in, and out, of range.

Because I was not Kerouac

or Hunter S. Thompson.

There were no gonzo riffs

psychedelic trips,

or even a hint

of excess.

Not at all

what I started out

expecting.

Because at the end of the road

the future is much like the past.

Except for new gadgets

to distract us;

and that all of a sudden

everyone

seems to have gotten that much younger.

Now the old car is grounded,

and I have settled down

with only minor regrets.

Not much left

of the stuff I once valued.

So I will leave

much as I came  —

with a minimum of fuss

and baggage,

helpless

unselfconscious,

in a natural state of undress.

At best remembered

by the next generation

before the future completely forgets.

A journal, some photos

all that are left

of my one great adventure.