Occidental

 

The sun breaks open over a distant hill

splashing pale winter light

across the dusty windshield

and painting long stripes

of shadow from the chain-link

fence along the road

as I hook a left

the old car cornering

like a carousel

groaning on its axle

as it goes in wide, lazy arcs

the window down in January

imbibing an uncommon heat

that has permeated the air

with the spice of opportunity

and the song on the radio

is telling me to keep on

just a little longer

hold out for that silent word

to which the mystics all allude

 

and for but a few moments there

coasting on the wind I feel

the undulation of epiphany

bubbling up in my throat

like a brash swig of champagne

like a butterfly perched on

my tongue

waiting to escape

into the world and reveal

some great, simple truth

that has no cleverness or irony

just a tone that seems to

urge me harder into 

the unsung chapters

around each corner

 

don't look back just yet

I hear

grip the wheel

and bomb into the coming

days

make them matter

as if a blank page was

folding open in your palms

hungry for ink and the fate

of the brewing story

just these moments

when the open road smiles

black and glinting with the sun

inviting us all westward

for there is time yet

raw and ready to be sculpted

with whatever you can fathom

 

and the rogue scent of summer

that has invaded this old town

has got me restless once again

eager for that spark of discovery

the urgent glory of constantly

arriving and departing

so I say farewell to this

crosswalk junkie I've been

impersonating for so many years

he has waited on the curb

waited on that light far too long

 

I reclaim the soles

and they tremble

speaking of their own

ravenous fetish, to lean and tilt

slung about like mercury

ready for whatever I can throw

their way, so long as they

are bound for the new, the unknown

down all those occidental highways

where the final hoof-trod trails

of the last cowboys withered up and died

 

where the sun steals away

from the edge of the Americas

the sparks of its tail

igniting the nameless secrets

of the future

waiting just around

the next turn in the road

 

and the stations keep on playing

songs I haven't heard it years

I've got a wad of $20's in my pocket

a trusty pair of leather boots

and full tank of gas weighing Bessie down

so I toss a finger wave

to the shadow of my former self

standing as a stranger

on the dusty highway shoulder

and watch him vanish in the mirror

swallowed up by the rising hills

I leave behind

wondering

if we will ever meet again