no visible break as i surge onward
only the sudden gusts
that rock my craft side to side
tell me i have crossed the boundary
the windows are open
cool air pours in
when the angle of the wind is just right
runs down the hairs of my legs
billows my shirt like a sail
tactile signals that, oddly,
make me feel disembodied
spiritual sensations,
touching another realm
foul air, like garbage and used motor oil
and humanity's runoff
i tell myself
it smells like barbacoa
although i cannot remember the taste of meat
or those i have tasted and enjoyed me
because i do well forgetting
how bittersweet the newformed spit
from love and suffering in spite of it
the many good souls
what come afore and what come after
or never come at all