I threw my plans in the rubbish heap

Kalemonster here, making my debut on this interwebular documentation of our dear Loki's journey into the great infinite void.  Currently that void has manifested in the form of a wimbly armpit a.k.a. New Jersey.  After various attempts to get the hell out of the Northeast, we have been rubber-banded back to where we started.  Physically, that is.  Yet, there has been some intangible change in the metaphysical landscape - a shift in consciousness.  Someone described the sensation as akin to a dream in which you find yourself in a familiar location but your perception of your environment is completely different from what it resembles in waking life.  We may still be "here" but our minds have shifted into a transient reality.  One in which each moment becomes the totality of our experience.  The future morphs into a mere concept that holds little bearing over present action.  We do not "plan" because an excess of premeditated actions prevents us from dedicating our consciousness to fully present action.  And plans are wont to be altered, thwarted, or all together thrown in the proverbial rubbish heap.  Not to mention plans lead to expectations that left unfulfilled, beget disappointment.  So basically we are living moment to moment here, utilizing this stationary period to learn how to better live with each other, to surrender to the flow, and to recognize that reality is what you make it.  Our bus is our home, whether we are in New Jersey or New Mexico.  

In other news, I wrote a poem about our first attempt to hit the road.  Hilariously enough we ended up spending the night in a musty warehouse.  I call this one "Warehouse Bedroom."

Warehouse bedroom
    pallid paradise
we took off riding
   tricycles through
      the industrial decay
"I say man, it's a goddamn circus!"
    hoops-a-twirlin'
    flags-a-flappin'
A modestly bearded minstrel
   plucking salvation
     in six strings.


We opened up the innards
   of this barren place
      prodded and pulled
          out the dormant vitals
 let the stale wind blow through
     emancipated tendrils
as I cruise by 
   on an antique ten-speed
     silver blue metallic
       rubber caressing concrete
             as the dream begins to stir...


"To hell with it!
     We'll have a parade!"
  an unlikely procession
   the machinery shrinking
     shocked yet intrigued
"Keep banging that drum, boy,
   let them hear it on Olympus!"
 We will not be silenced
   our joy not smothered
      though our throats are
         filling up with toxins
              with each stifled breath.


We just dive deeper
  into the belly of the beast
   to find the oasis of creation
        a magic box buried
            amongst the rubble
   Tread lightly now
   for this is hallowed ground
    and I pay homage to
         the winged horse shoe crab
            who finally got free.


The band shows up
   and oh are we in the pudding now
"Hike up your britches and 
        hold on....."
The electric guitar humming and buzzing and cooing
   like a colony of bees
   like a gospel choir
   like vibratory marmalade
Now the trumpet
    slithering out of the raucous mire 
         silver brass sex appeal
     and we're all set a-tingling
The drums
    rolling down the mountain
            picking up speed until...
    "Snap your suspenders,
          we're going polka dancing!"
   and we laugh and laugh
       til our cheeks crumble
            from the weight of bliss.


Into the void
  where the acoustics are best
the horn sounding omnipresent
  as the guitar lulls on
     like a weary Siren 
my lips part an I sing
     soul-stricken and full
      raw and unabashed
 a mantra of redemption.