The things you can’t control will go to shit.
So plan ahead, for caltrops in the road
await unwary drivers. Baggage stowed
as best you can, forget the tarmac, grit—
keep watching the horizon, far ahead
and still receding, still receding, still.
I make no guarantees; perhaps you will
see roadblocks that would tip you on your head,
and swerve in time. But here’s the thing: do not
fixate on swerving—that’s just detail, mire
to clog your wheels. Just gun the motor, fire
all cylinders, and get that engine hot!
Your friends and family will claim
you need a map, or maybe GPS;
ignore their poison! Good intentions pave
the road you drive upon. There is no shame
in crash-and-burn; fame’s how our futures bless
the bits of past they’re glad they couldn’t save.


[ Another sonnet rescued from the vaults, this one also written in late 2011. ]



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