Flames trailing flaring
fender. Accelerator
down, slicing the wind.
fender. Accelerator
down, slicing the wind.
Still…
Getting there
To a place without feeling
I find a wasteland of being
An emptiness
In the midst of plenty
After which two things happened: I looked at my mother, and I touched it.
No. No, no.
Divine
I mean divine.
On a calm, breezeless evening
Not even a shimmer on the reflecting pond
My mind drifts
With the passing of time
As if it were
A theme park ride
And it is
Thus are we rendered
Ephemera
Greetings traveler:
In ancient times, there was a prayer for “The Stranger Within our Gates.” Because this motel is a human institution to serve people, and not solely a money-making organization, we hope that God will grant you peace and rest while you are under our roof.