Sunday, June 1, 2014


how they broke away to go to the califonia country
"so far? so early? so soon..."
                                                Carl Sandberg

each of us stepped off a porch
(in Houston, or Boise, Reno or Brooklyn,
Matamoros, Havana, Belize)
into our particular
escape, adventure, 
doors slamming 
or shutting quietly behind
t-shirt manifestoes, army surplus bags
and boots – Kerouac's rucksack army
unwittingly massed
for peaceful revolution...
we transported,
riding in trains, planes, 
hitching or driving 
tracking that dotted line on Eisenhower's 
parallel military free ways west

our futures followed the sun
crossed deserts, mountains
to illogical conclusions:
crumbling cells in SRO hotels
shabby roach-infested broken mansions
pretty bungalows courted row-by-row
cabins, shacks, rented rooms all bathed
in unremitting sunshine or sweet fog.
"Now, what?" we would say,
"Are we having fun yet?"
cruising crowded sidewalks, 
banquets of storefronts
no matter where we went: paradise –
here we were –
this promised land and
we could yell,
or not...

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