Lonesome highway blues,
eyes itch, head aches after a midnight run.
Rickety van ambles on
from my confinement before the reaper came.
Interstate highway west,
creative life blood, soother of my soul.
Sitting on a bench
the last stop before Wyoming emptiness.
She sat betraying sadness
only the poet knows, only the poet suffers.
Paisley gypsy dress
long blond dirty hair hanging to taut waist.
“A rIde mister?”
a voice asked, no words spoken.
Her soul and backpack
fell onto my raggedy salvation mattress,
with dreams of a sage desert plain.
We danced a song
on Medicine Bow Peak at the dawn of life.
I dropped the sacred crystal
into the magic cairn for a pagan mountain god.
She smiled her approval
with a heart kiss from smiling Hera
An eagle flies circles
above prayer flags fluttering in still air.
A wolf pup howls for its mother.
The way we talked
sad mumble jumble
on a silly sultry
summer night when June kissed Luna goodnight.
That night we
to a Viennese waltz
played by a
rock band in
the empty street of shuttered store fronts where the dreamless slept.
Have we ever
of each other
from the endless discourse of incomplete sentences without noun or verb?
At the dawn
her silver flute
with her black
and you became me
and I became you the final battle lost forever and we were now immortal.
as we drank our
with our croissants
that fed our bliss
and we wrote
our new poetry
and sonnets about futility of love we would share for eternity.
A week before tomorrow a
past life found me in a smoke free bar on
watching FIFA soccer on a fifty two inch
I finished my
extra dry martini with two olives
stirred, not shaken and
left for the be-bop time of
smokey jazz clubs in
dark basements below the
sad city of lights.
The horn man blew his
wailing melodies to our despondent generation who
gave their souls to words and sutras . . .
we dressed in black.
Our deep dialectics were
concerned with slow time when the
tribe of hedonists gathered
for pleasure in the cold room flat above the
shop keepers shop.
Our poetry played the
crazy rhythm of the jazz free
discourse that fed us our
left over life
free of mammon's rules.
I returned from my fantasy
past life trip to an extra dry martini with two olives
shaken, not stirred and FIFA soccer
still nil - nil on a
fifty two inch flat screen.
And I went home to
my cold room flat above a
shop keeper's shop to
write a new sutra of
that time when
life was still free.