The Quest, for those who have left, by Sue Blair
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Speak to me, questing spirit
Dash against the rocks
the bonds of the mundane
the average, society's 'shoulds'
the space filled with 
two point two kids
the nine to five job
the two cars
and proportioning of 'quality time'
for those closest to me

technology should have freed us
I wonder as I sit in a 4x4 cube
I spend more time here 
than with those who I love
a wretched caged cur
catching the frisbee only in my mind
and imagining the warm sun on my belly
even through the stale air conditioning
that is on too high again
goosebumps in the middle of June

I am a drone, an automaton
We are the hollow men
Putting in the 40 and 40 
40 hours so that 40 percent tax can be extracted
from my buzzing, rotting carcass
to support the hive structure
strip malls
hamburger helper
and diapers tossed out the
car window on the trip
to disneyland
slogging along in cubeland
On the gold-plated retirement day
I can look back on the American dream and smile
Knowing that I played my mediocre part

I can hear the dashing spirit
Whisper to me 
In the waves that I'm not making

Dash the proscribed hive mentality
Upon the shells and skeletons
Of those who have come before
the strong, the individual 
the entrepreneur
have contemplated 
what you now contemplate
yet, in the dashing,
a part of oneself is lost
wind rushes through your hair
smacking your eyes and senses
adrenaline courses 
as you see your toes 
break off tiny bits of rock 
that fall into the pit 
of freedom and choice
it is a womb, a grave 
a furnace and a robin's nest
the yawing abyss of loneliness
darkness and fear at the bottom
a cool, clear breeze comes from the top
a space of peace and potential
buzzing with the energy of dreams
as you examine the tokens of the few
at the shore ledge of the canyon
the toys, the books, the poems, the cures
turning them over in your hand, deciding

my heart holds a vision
of the diversity of nature unbound
with each being in its own infinite space
achieving its own unique beauty
the jagged lines of reality interfere
with the picture-tube of my thoughts
as the whale and rhino 
bellow their last hurrah
to make way for the american dream
the television screen of my mind 
begins to roll 
as a great nitrous wind attempts to provide solace
the numbing does not erase
the pain of still being able to see 
my spinning broken vision