Tuesday, March 12, 2013

If I don't get out there soon I'll die

Close as many roads as you like
I imagine one straight golden line
leading out to the coast through
leaning wheat stacked plains and closed
snow covered mountain passes,
trees taller than the buildings
sent to suffocate and teach me
to keep my head down, teach ya to ignore
the sky, walk on walk on walk on
searching aging dying calling
out into the sweet dark American night
that still smells sometimes like that
greasy sweat we used to know
and weren't afraid enough to ignore, labor
sweat and poet's sweat and jazz-man sweat that'd seeped into
the life blood of the continent unnoticed--
before it was paved and potted with
new factory blend soil and re-branded
old, meaningless, bygone and tired,
meant to be looked at out the periphery
of embarrassed eyes and dry throats--

if ya let it, it'll spill its secrets,
its true self unadorned
I'll walk into the night for the rivers
and sounds unheard,
I'll get out there and find you--
god knows I'll try

1 comment:

  1. Goddamn...that went from hopeful to bleak to somewhat hopeful again...great undulations. Golden lines and nature, buried art, then a search at the end.