poem: east of where i stand

7 Oct

my brain fills
with scattershot landscapes,
tumble weeds blow dead
across long flat rivers of black asphalt,
trees and shrubs bend from a ceaseless wind,
dust carves veins atop dry clay river bottoms –

I cannot begin again
down this road,
travel across the Mojave,
through ports of insanity,
past memories etched on bar tops
and dirty truck stop bathroom floors –
stains litter broken concrete,
remembrances of escapade and malady –

at a four-corner stop on Highway 72,
where cars never pass,
trucks never venture;
where traffickers land
and unload Columbia wares;
where the restless find peace;
I pull to the shoulder,
swirls of dust peel toward
an expectant smile –
I scream out her name,
if only to hear it breathe to life,
if only to let the word tumble from my drying lips,
if only to know a moment of solace –

before the road calls
and I travel East –

I always travel East,
she will always be East of where I stand –


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