reverse commute

i take my meals in truck stops
along the highway, after-hours when
almost everyone is gone, when i can nearly
hear the echoes of the movements my jaws make
as i ingest. my head is empty, and i wear dark,
inconspicuous clothes. who i am in these
spaces is no one, and what i am doing is
going from nowhere to noplace,
as far as anyone knows. i imagine assassins
feel the same way at times, almost
lonesome but too uninterested to truly feel it.

my domain is my car; i speed on highways,
breaking the law only enough to feel
that i am getting away with something. my
domain is in the air above: i will one day arise,
as smoke toward the sun. it is also in the ground,
which will entomb my ashes. my domain stretches
from shoulder to shoulder, right to left, and
between my ears. my domain is my armspan,
or the length of my cock. my domain stretches
into every crack and crevice, every inanimate object
and idea that my mind might ever make a difference
to, or which might ever enter into that arena. it is whatever
my heart will allow it to be, from one moment—