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Jon Plunkett

Today I rode to work on nothing.
No bike. No Road.
Just a head full of nothing,
spinning off into the suck
and pull of the vacuum.

I carried on into the chasm
if only briefly,
until I found the other side
and rode back out again.
Then the grim empty

of the void’s silent space.
After that I was pummelled
in the flint-black crush
of the holes abyss
turning inward and inward

with each revolution,
all thoughts mashed
and pulped to irrelevance.
I think there was even
a small pop as I imploded,

and became part of nothing.
Part of that stealthy thing
always elusive, always
skulking in the beyondness
of anything and becoming

something when considered.
Today I rode on nothing,
but full of hope
that there is a bike, is a road,
so I can find my way back home.

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