poetry

there's something about being somewhere far from home, maybe in the middle of the American midwest, with the horizon clearly in view, and the lights of cities strangely absent from the sky, or maybe in the kingdom of Kyrgyzstan, on a military base, at 2am, underneath a wooden and steel stage, fumbling around in the dark, trying to stretch your arm around one large metal object, stretching with all your strength, your other hand holding a weakening flash-light, almost powerless against the vast, convoluted darkness underneath this stage