En Route to San Anselmo:

bumbling along the dusty stretch of

road that seems to amble on ad infinitum

leaving behind wastelands saturated

with cows crowded reared for slaughter

black and white bodies break up

the smear of ochre beneath bottle-blue skies

and the spindly figures of telephone lines

sentry over a lonely desert town veiled in cracked concrete.

nursing brown bag beer in the backseat,

you ache for the breath of autumn

setting New England trees ablaze

with ethereal halos, seas of vermillion

this feels familiar: like a memory molded to your bones, nestled somewhere between your heart and your ribs, stirred from its slumber by a smell, a lilt of the head, a brush of shoulders, a confluence of glances

and ivy choking brick walls as old as America.

gallivanting past boutiques and family-diners

frozen in their small town torpor,

stolen cigarettes hidden in the valleys of corduroys,

you cross leaves strewn like broken bodies underfoot,

pond swelling, campus exhaling mist

like a sigh for all the decades of degenerates

congregating in the dark corners of classrooms past curfew.

the dirge of church bells tell you that it’s time to home,

but you rather explore your lopsided poetry

with this penniless bohemian, your hipster Jesus,

watching the quiet dying sun diffuse its stifling sleepiness.

plagued by the skinny ghost of something forgotten, trying to fit into old clothes: you can’t remember what it’s like to want, but you think this is it, like catching a whiff of a past self in a discarded sweater that hangs loose and unavailing

you wait for a red station wagon then the train

to whisk you away to the city’s skyscraper labyrinth,

Broadway signs echoing off yellow cabs, fingers crossed

under your Barbour until your Amtrak pulls into Grand Central.

allegro heartbeat reverberating through the atrium’s belly

to the warble of reunited lovers , businessmen bumping briefcases

while unloading monetary diatribes onto cellphones glued to ruddy faces

and mothers shepherding waddling children,

but one mop-haired lady stands alone

with her silent phone and neglected gift-bag,

and you watch her shuffle in her velour sweats

and designer coat, collar turned up against the world.

his arm splayed out over your backseat, you keep your eyes on the horizon because thinking back takes you to junctions of will-they-wont-theys, nights passing pipes under shared covers illuminated by a laptop screen’s glow: self-fulfilling prophecies of self-implosion

dodging the disgruntled office crowd to the coffee shop

where you shared towers of steamed dumplings and

talked Milton and God and Nihilism over pearls pooling in milk tea,

you clutch the comic book peace offering in your gloves,

but even ghosting through old haunts, used bookstores

musty with the bones of literature preached to schoolkids

devoured and discarded, you realize he’s found another muse

to inspire his tragic Trafalmadorian dreams.

so you ran to neon lights illuminating the godless dive

of gold rush pipe dreams and languid palm trees

where you shed burnt skin anew and hid your eyes and soul

behind tinted Ray-Bans and umbrella-topped cocktails.

hell is the el scorcho California sun hailing perdition on nameless towns littered with one-storey stucco mustard boxhouses that shake with the fury of railroad ghosts and Indians lamenting their stolen land

but purgatory is standing at the crossroads not knowing, revisiting corners you thought you were happy to leave behind. How easy to chat again, old friend