3, 2, 1, Blast Off (2012)

I am straddling a rocket ship
          on a one-way course
          to the starry cosmos.
I'm a human missile,
          "Slow" is foreign language,
          mumbo jumbo,
          jargon of conservative.
The Wind's voice can't temper
          my reckless desire.
I'm a human bullet
          shot from a cannon.

The pavement is a black winding river,
          with chewed gum in it.
The white dotted line,
          is now a white solid streak.
The trees have become
          a blurred hedgerow
          made of a green rainbow.
The sun is making love with the gas tank,
          and their heat is coming off in waves.
My missile, my rocket, my bullet
          roars at me with ferocity;
          a monster I cannot escape.

Backlit gauges show me three numbers
          where two once stood.
Two, ironically, is the number of souls
          brave enough for this journey.
A Wasp, brilliant with its yellow and black,
          hanging on for survival,
          as am I.
A pilot and co-pilot
          blasting off into the unknown together,
          giving me an unfamiliar sense of comfort.
How odd indeed,
          being comforted by a Wasp.

Black metallic eyes,
          unblinking, peering forward
          into things it couldn't understand.
Only two thin yellow legs
          clung to the missile,
          the others flowed with
          the furious Wind.
The Wasp couldn't know
          where we were going.
It had taken a chance
          and landed on a bullet.

In a bat of my lashes
          a new destination has arrived.
I release my wrist's tension,
          the monster is back in its cage,
          the rocket back in the hanger,
          the bullet casing now on the ground.
I bid my co-pilot
          a fruitful future, as it flies away.

We are all Wasps,
          deep down at our molten cores.
Taking chances on things
          we may not understand.
Hanging on for dear life,
          so that the sun may once again
          warm our faces.
We are led along winding paths,
          with no way to tell
          where we are going,
          or where our journeys may end.
We are all Wasps
          clinging to something,
          as our world turns and flies beneath us.