Roadrunner
A Poem about Anthony Bourdain

I saw a boy without a bottom lip Screamin’ at the top of his lungs, for a drop of water. I saw it. And still I went home, and pushed my baby girl on a swing, under the sun.
I’ve been on the extremes most of my life, It gave me a thrill, but it also took any sense of normalcy. I tried to level out, it gets hard when, my life is traced out on empty roads. Under forest trees, in the slums, on ocean beds, in inlets of the wildest jungle, on the hot sands of the Sahara, in the Constance of chaos. In it, at all times.
I peered in like a perfect outsider, Into the lives of the normal. I peered, sometimes I liked what I saw, and other times I would cry at the imbalance. Why was I born with more than enough? Why were they born into nothing? I tried to level out, But I couldn’t find a level playing field. In the end I made profit from their lives, while they are left with nothing but a pixel stamp on the TV screen.
The red lanterns float toward the sky, illuminated under the starry night. For once there was, a moment of undisrupted Peace. No air horns, No bombs dropping on innocent villages, No planes flying across the land, No white trails in the clouds. I wish I could capture it,| because tomorrow will be just another day.
I found a substitute to the needle, But addiction is addiction. I’m always searching, expecting to find something. I’ve come to accept, nothing is permanent. Not these roads, Not these oceans, Not the living, Not the dead, Not even these bald-headed hacks in office. I kept searching, knowing what I’m searching for might be long gone. Gone billions of years ago.
When you start seeing everything outside for what it (truly) is, you get weary. You begin to enjoy seeing your own life in romantic ways, You accept the stereotypes of things. The image of a good father, The image of a cowboy, The image of the perfect lover, The image of a showman, The image of a good man, The scent of a rose, The smile of your lover, The love of your daughter, The strength of a noose.
Some people fly too close to the sun, In their path they leave trails of inspiration. Trails that turn into raindrops, for people like you and me. Murals will be painted about your journey, lessons will be learnt, but still your life won’t be permanent.





