A veritable caricature of Jeremiah Johnson, I strung out on "truth"
     years ago.
Sitting amongst August sidewalks which sweat like a ***** in heat,
     I verbally assault passersby.
With a slurred battle cry of, "I can out merlot you any day!" I fall to
     my knees, unsure of which direction is up.
I try not to think of words like vertigo, or.....vertigo.
A honking car sounds life back into me, but the windows are tinted so
    I can't tell if I have it coming or not.
I flip em' the bird, just to be sure.

Where God's colors renew the horizon's edge, Salvation Soldiers
     aren't to be found.
And while prairie dogs find themselves squatters on their own land,
     upper crust artists show us where the day old bread is.
This is a good place to clear your head if ever there was one.
Where dusty markets lead down dusty roads, which lead right into
      the middle of where I want to be.
Free and Alone on the side of a mountain, where the sun don't
     apologize to me, and I don't have to explain myself to anyone else.

Some go ahead and call this God's Country.
But I call this place New Mexico.

Bus stop dreads stop me in my tracks because I'm too white to be coming
   around here.
My clothes are too ***** and my smile too honest.
I live a life of privilege that has nothing to do with the color of my skin or
   the "insufficient funds" in my bank account.
Idle time is the devil's plaything they say,
But the devil has always sent his own to take care of me.
So we just keep on walking, not to be judged by the race based politics of those who have no recognized power over us.

My friend and I saw Val Kilmer make a **** deal last night, and her
    nose started to itch.
We both used to ride the rails, but on completely different lines.

Mine took me to new states.
Hers took her to a different state of mind.

I Asked her to come with me once, in so many words.
Before I could ask her, "why not?" she asked the same of me.

I told her I was scared.
She said, "Me Too".

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I count the divider lines as they disappear under the truck.
The hood of our big rig eating them up like some,
insatiable beast.
"You and me" he says, "We're the last real cowboys."
He's right.
We're the last real vestige of the American West.
The thousand dead bugs and cracked windshield tell the stories of
      our cannon ball runs.
Littered floors and bloodshot eyes have replaced our calendars.
Local bartenders have replaced our therapists.
And the 8-track gives us hope with a steady beat.

"**** John Wayne!" he screams as he snorts a line and blows past the
     weigh station.
This has been going on for three hours now, and I'm strangely comfortable.

Gypsy smiles with aching minds put forty ounce bottles to pursed lips,    and we're still not drunk enough to have excuses in the morning.
Our lives have become the lyrics to a Tom Waits anthem.

Dusty Carhartts and broken knuckles beg the question: "What kind of collective living exists when nobodies home?"
My mind is racing like the CSX flyby out of Baldwin, and I'm tempted to jump in front of that ******* tonight cause I'm too scared to change the world.
She walks up and hugs me and I pray that it's more than the beer hugging me.
"Another World is Possible" is painted behind us in strokes of motivation the others just don't have.
There was no dust kicking up behind me as I walked away. There wasn't even a break in the conversation.