driving past the shadow flutter of butterflies

my lumbering white chariot

of locomotion sped past blurs;

colored incarnations of faces,

grayed out shutters, protruding

trees and the faint reflection

of automated inattention.

lugging an adopted

prosopagnosia, i stumble at

speed past wisps; now merely

the unclaimed souls of

the change i have bought

around me.

i whip my silent, sleek chariot

forward. under the shade

of tunnels, over the spread of

civilization, around mona lisa-ed

walls, past the shadow dance

of fleeing butterflies.

on a path as capricious as

the gadgets on it, around it,

i ride myself into the future;

clueless of where i am going

to end up. i may have an

address but no destination.